Reclaim yourself one drawing at a time- week 2 art heals and empowers 28 days of self love

Pick up a brush, pen, paints, journals and get going

Feb 16, 2025

A few days ago, during an interview, I was asked one of the classic questions: Tell me about your strengths.

Martha wanted to interfere. Do you really want me to tell you about my strengths? she almost blurted out. Read my blog posts, and you’ll understand.

I had to silence her, gently asking her to step aside, to wait in the wings while I played my part. I had to put on the mask, delivering, like a well-trained parrot, the words a potential employer might—or might not—want to hear.

Martha is my voice. The one who refuses to tolerate abuse anymore. The one who won’t stay silent. She is my alter ego, my protector.

Have you noticed how, wherever you are, people judge, compare, assess, and evaluate you—forcing you onto an invisible Procrustean bed? You never quite know its shape, yet the one in front of you—the assessor—wields power, deciding how you should fit. It reminded me of the old stampila people, those clerks who held authority simply because they controlled the official stamp, the one that made documents valuable.

Metaphorically, they lay you down and start cutting—pruning you like a bonsai, twisting you into unnatural shapes. You might pass their test, or you might be cut down entirely.

And you see this everywhere in society…

Before sharing my week in creative self-expression, I want to share a thought.

I recently made a lighthearted remark on a note I found interesting—something about subscriber numbers, growth, and all that. Nothing aggressive, nothing out of line. The response I got? "If your reason is impact and helping as many people as possible, then numbers are a factor."

I have to admit, dear reader, that words like impact and helping others make me nauseous these days. Just like be kind, save the planet, we’re in it together—these phrases have become part of the collective brainwashing, repeated so often they’ve lost all meaning.

So many seem to carry a kind of Messiah complex—rescuing, saving, making noise, chasing the glory of numbers. I don’t.

I write because, just like a painter who picks up a brush and layers color upon color, revealing fragments of their soul, I pick up a pen and start sharing. Writing is my expression of the unspoken, the unseen.

I see my so-called writing as messages scribbled on scraps of paper, sealed in bottles, and cast into the sea. There’s no control over who finds them, when, or how they might respond. And that, to me, is enough.

And now, 7 days in thoughts and drawings, delighted to be part of the 28daysofself initiated by

Laurie Maves Guglielmi

and a continuation of my 100 days of creative self expression. We are now at day hmmm 124… I think. Could be wrong!

People pleasers are notorious for not putting themselves first. To be perfectly frank those words are not even part of their vocabulary. When those words make an appearance is a sign the words self love are around as well

The self-love journey continues, revealing itself in profound ways today. One manifestation was the time I gifted myself to draw, fully immersing in the process. It’s always fascinating to see what emerges on the page—I approach each result with curiosity and wonder, embracing the unexpected.

Another powerful act of self-care and self-love was writing an imaginary letter to one of my tormentors—the Double-Headed Viper from Naked Truth, a bully who once made my life a misery. I allowed myself to write freely, using every word I needed to express, pouring out emotions long suppressed. Strangely, I felt the urge to write it in Romanian, my native language, as if my truest voice demanded to be heard. Then, in a small yet symbolic ceremony, I burned the letter, watching the fire consume every word, transforming pain into ashes. The act of releasing that energy back to its source was cathartic—deeply liberating, even exhilarating.

If you’ve ever carried unspoken words meant for someone who hurt you, try this approach. Let them flow onto the page, give them form, then set them free. The fire listens, transforms, and in its glow, healing begins.

I read somewhere that “trauma disconnects us from our needs,” and it felt like a mirror was suddenly placed in front of me. It’s so true. Trauma doesn’t just dissociate us from our bodies—it severs us from our needs on a massive scale.

We don’t stop when we’re exhausted, even when our thoughts blur into incoherence—we just keep going.
We don’t ask for help because rejection has been etched into us so deeply that trying again feels unbearable.
We deny ourselves rest, even when we are utterly drained, because guilt whispers that we haven’t done enough.
We can’t pause, can’t embrace stillness, because the perpetrator’s voice still lingers in our minds, urging us to push harder, do more, be more.

But when we recognize this pattern—when we see it clearly—it’s like yanking the handbrake on a car that’s been speeding toward the unknown. We stop. We notice our hands gripping the invisible wheel. We check our breath. We see our bodies, maybe for the first time in a long while. We look outside and truly see—the tree, the bird, the stretch of sky.

And in that moment, we begin to reconnect—with ourselves, with the present, with life itself.

If you think bullying doesn’t leave marks, think again. Recovery takes time, and it’s essential to be gentle with yourself.

Yesterday, I was triggered just by seeing the name of one of my perpetrators in my LinkedIn messages.

My entire body froze, my breathing became frantic—like a bird desperately trying to escape a hawk—palms clammy, heart racing. A part of me wanted to scold myself for reacting this way.

But that’s the trap—falling back into old patterns of self-blame.

Thirty minutes later, after journaling and breathing exercises, I felt a shift. I climbed out of that dark place where trauma had dragged me.

Recovery isn’t linear, and triggers don’t mean you’re back at square one. They’re reminders of how far you’ve come and how much care you still deserve. Be extra kind to yourself—you’re healing

Another grey and rainy day and another opportunity to cuddle up and listen to an Elizabeth Peters audiobook with a few drawing pens next to me.

The savior I’ve been waiting for is me.

It took me such a long time to realize this.

Trauma survivors often live in silent hope—hoping someone will hear their unspoken screams, see the frozen tears in their eyes, notice the abuse, and stand up for them when they are powerless.

Whether it’s emotional abuse in the family they grew up in, bullying in the workplace, or betrayal in a marriage, they keep hoping. And hoping.

Why? Because they are the givers. The ones who have demands placed upon them—by others, for others. If you think they have any energy left for themselves, think again.

But just like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, the world eventually shifts for them too. Wobbly feet. Small steps. Yet, with each word spoken, each boundary set, each act of self-preservation, they reclaim their power.

And this time, they stand up—for themselves.

There’s something magical about friendship, don’t you think? It’s just one word, yet it holds countless interpretations and shades. The kind of friendship where you can open up about anything—no topic too fringe, unusual, or edgy.

A space where you can bare your soul without fear of being misinterpreted, ridiculed, or lectured. The kind of bond where you move from tears to laughter, knowing you are safe, seen, and understood. That friend who holds space for you to speak, heal, and reclaim the parts of yourself you thought were lost.

Trauma survivors often struggle with trust, and it can take a long time for them to feel safe enough to open their hearts, knowing they won’t be betrayed.

If you feel inspired to pick up a pen, pencil, or brush, follow that spark. Let go of the idea of perfection, release the need for something specific. Simply begin—make marks, scribble, let colors flow, let words take shape. Each line, each stroke, each word is a step toward reclaiming yourself. Let this be your space, your voice, your healing. One image, one word at a time.