I was born into a family of artists, where creativity was a virtue, and making things by hand carried a certain moral weight. I wanted to be an artist from the moment I could hold a crayon, but I was an introverted and sensitive child, riddled with self-doubt, so I gravitated toward solitary crafts—quiet, controllable spaces where my hands could move carefully, and mistakes could be repaired. I learned to use a needle and thread as a young girl and sewed with devotion, making my own clothes and winning prizes for my efforts. I loved the feel of textiles and yarn, the meditative cadence of knitting, and the versatility of working with paper. I wrote poetry to express my feelings, though I found my own vulnerability unsettling. I tried pottery, photography, and other art forms, but I was cautious and tidy, intolerant of mistakes, and constantly measuring myself against my family’s achievements. Though I was prolific, I felt too inhibited to be what I imagined a “real” artist to be—someone fearless and unrestrained, fueled by a free spirit I clearly did not possess.
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