We live in a world that asks us to be "on" at all times. For many of the women I talk to—women who are intentionally curating their lives and homes—anxiety isn't just a feeling; it’s the background noise of a busy life.

I know that noise well. For years, I looked for ways to quiet the "jangly" feeling in my body and the racing thoughts that whispered I wasn't doing enough or being enough.

For years, I’ve explored how the simple act of making art can quiet the mind. In my earlier work as a coach, I shared these tools as exercises for others. Today, as a professional artist, these practices have evolved into something deeper: they are the sacred rituals I use to clear the noise before I ever touch a brush to canvas.

In our daily lives, we often strive for order and routine. But in art, at least the way I make it, it’s the "imperfections" and the layers that hold the most beauty.

When I’m in my studio in Western North Carolina, I spend a lot of time playing with the organic nature of watercolor. I don’t just paint a mountain; I cultivate a landscape that feels like it has a history.

When I look at the mountains of North Carolina that surround my home, my hikes, and even my grocery shopping, I don’t see flat lines or perfect textures. Instead, I see layers of history, ridges that overlap and undulate, and a landscape that is beautifully unrefined.

This is why I am so drawn to the use of torn paper in my original landscapes.

Do you ever walk into a room and instantly feel... something? A quiet peace, a spark of joy, or perhaps a lingering sense of overwhelm? Our homes are more than just collections of furniture and decor; they are living reflections of our inner worlds, constantly whispering back to us about our true state of being.

There is a specific kind of magic that happens in the quiet of my North Carolina studio. It’s a transition from the "doing" of the day—the emails, the schedules, the noise—into a state of pure "being."