Paint your world

 Amanda sat at her easel, the brush in her hand poised but unmoving. The canvas before her was a blank expanse, waiting for the vibrant colors she had long been known for. But today, the colors seemed distant, just out of reach. Her mind wasn’t on the swirls of abstract hues she had planned to create, but on the call she had received that morning from her younger brother, Jonathon.

“Mammy stuff is everywhere in the house,” he had said. “I don’t know what to do with all of it. And then is Sandra. She’s still not talking to me. I can’t get her to listen at all at all.”

Amanda had sighed, running a hand through her hair. For five years, ever since their mother had passed, she had been the anchor for her siblings. The mother they had all lost, and in a way, the mother they had all tried to keep. She was the one who kept the household together, who played the role of protector and provider while still being a sister. She was the one who organized the birthdays, managed the bills, and soothed the fights. But in the midst of it all, her own dreams — the ones she had set aside to take care of everything else — were left waiting.

Her brush hovered above the canvas. The world outside her bedroom studio was still. But in her heart, everything felt loud. Jonathon’s call, Sandra’s silence, the weight of her father’s unspoken expectations. Each one pulled her in different directions, demanding her attention and care, as though they expected her to continue playing the role of mother to them all.

She looked at the half-finished painting she had started weeks ago, a landscape she had always wanted to bring to life. But every time she picked up the brush, her thoughts wandered to her siblings. Their needs, their emotional battles. Could she really paint when they needed her so much? Should she be the one to step in and fix everything, just like she always had?

Amanda sighed and put the brush down. She wandered to the window, staring out at the quiet neighborhood park across the street. She had often wondered, in the silence of her studio, if she was living the life she had always imagined. Or if she was simply reacting, trying to patch together pieces of everyone else’s brokenness, while her own dreams sat quietly on the sidelines.

That’s when she remembered the journal her mother had kept. It was tucked in a box under her desk, with pages full of thoughts, stories, and dreams. She hadn’t read it in years, but now, in the quiet, it felt like the right moment. She pulled it out, opening to a page where her mother had written:

"To create is to breathe life into what was once unseen. Never stop painting your world, Amanda. Even when the world asks more than you can give."

Amanda smiled softly, a tear slipping down her cheek. She closed the journal and placed it back in the box. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel the overwhelming pressure to fix everything or be everything to everyone. She was free, always was but she would get lost in the noise and forget about what lay deep within her.

With new resolve, she returned to her easel. The brush felt familiar in her hand as she dipped it into the paint, her strokes bold and purposeful. This time, she painted for herself — for the first time in years, Amanda was painting not just for her siblings, not just for the world outside her, but for the quiet voice inside her that had waited patiently to be heard.

Her heart, like her canvas, was no longer blank. It was filled with color.