The Studio Became My Way Through; Healing Through Art

TRANQUIL • LUMINOUS • ROOTED

Stories from the studio, reflections on process, and the art of the handmade.

Exactly one year ago, I walked into urgent care for what I thought was walking pneumonia. Today, I find myself reflecting on a year marked by surgery, survival, and an unexpected return to creativity. This post isn’t easy to write—but I’m putting it out there.

It was just one year ago almost to the day, I thought I had walking pneumonia.

I walked into urgent care expecting antibiotics, maybe a few days of rest, and to move on. But the chest X-ray revealed something else—a mass. That mass led to scans, a biopsy, and then a word that still stuns me when I say it aloud: cancer. My walking pneuomonia was a blessing in disguise.

Stage one lung cancer. A shock, especially as a non-smoker. Things moved quickly after that, and I’m thankful they did. Over the weeks that followed, I moved through a series of scans and tests—each one a step in confirming that the cancer hadn’t reached beyond that single shadow. Six weeks later, I entered surgery, where they removed the tumor along with nearly a fifth of my upper left lung. A solemn surrender of something I once took for granted: breath. My health was in the hands of compassionate and capable doctors, a Pulmonologist and a Thoracic surgeon.

What came after wasn’t just recovery—it was a reckoning and the studio became my way through; healing through art.

Today, I spoke about it publicly for the first time.

I was invited to speak to the board of directors at the hospital where I was treated. A room full of decision-makers, clinicians, and caregivers—many of whom helped shape my story in ways they may never know. I told them how I moved from an ordinary Tuesday visiting my Pulmonoligist, to a life-altering Thursday when I had a biopsy that shaped the days ahead. I told them how cared for I felt. And I told them what happened next.

I am still here

Two months after surgery, I began creating a business.

What was I thinking?

It wasn’t a strategic decision. It wasn’t planned. But I had this impulse—this need—to make something. Anything. My hands knew what to do even when my mind was still catching up and sometimes still is.

I started stitching, painting, binding. I turned back to collage. I opened my online shop. And slowly, I started to feel like myself again.

The studio became my way through.

Art didn’t heal me—but it gave me a place to be while I healed. The studio became my way through; healing through art. Cancer strips things down. It makes you see time differently. It made me want to create with urgency and intention—to make work that was intentional, true, and deeply personal. My handmade books, my pagekeepers, my stitched collages—they aren’t just things I make. They are things I lived through.

So here I am, putting myself out there.

This is a story I wasn’t sure I’d ever tell publicly. But it feels right now—one year later—to say it plainly:

I’m still here. I’m still creating. And somehow, that feels like enough.

If you’ve walked through something life-altering—illness, grief, change—you know how it lingers. But you also know how it shapes you. If you're in that place right now, know that you're not alone.

Curious what came out of that post-cancer creative sprint? You can explore my handmade books, fiber work, and studio tools [here].

Thanks for being here. I don’t take it lightly.