Chapter 2: Curiosity Becomes a Lifeline

That video I’d watched of an artist working with resin did more than capture my attention—it ignited something in me that I hadn’t felt in a long time: curiosity. It was a glimmer of hope, a spark in the midst of my grief. For the first time since losing Jamila, I felt the desire to explore something new, to get lost in a process that could offer me a break from the pain. Resin art felt like a mystery I was eager to unravel, a way to dive into a world of color, movement, and transformation.

I threw myself into learning everything I could about this art form. I watched tutorial after tutorial, marveling at the way experienced artists mixed pigments, added textures, and created depth with each pour. Each video was a lesson, a glimpse into how resin could be manipulated and shaped into something beautiful. I looked over articles, joined online communities, and followed artists whose creations seemed to breathe life. With each new technique I read about, I felt a little of that initial spark grow stronger.

Almost failing art in high school, I had never considered myself a “creative” person. I’d struggled with self-doubt when it came to artistic expression, always assuming it wasn’t something I’d ever excel at. But this felt different. Resin wasn’t about following rigid rules or perfecting a technique right from the start. It was about letting go and trusting the flow of the materials. For the first time, I felt like there was room for mistakes, for learning through trial and error. It didn’t have to be perfect—it just had to be mine.

After weeks of watching, reading, and absorbing as much as I could, I finally decided to take the plunge and buy my first resin kit. I remember the moment it arrived, the box feeling both heavy and hopeful in my hands. As I unwrapped the components, a mix of nervousness and excitement washed over me. I wasn’t sure if I was ready, but I knew I needed this. I needed a way to channel everything I was feeling into something constructive, to build something new instead of allowing myself to feel stuck, broken, and overwhelmed by loss.

Setting up my workspace that day, I could feel my heart pounding with anticipation. I carefully read the instructions, making sure I understood every step. As I mixed the resin and hardener, measuring with as much precision as I could manage, I thought about all the pieces of myself that felt scattered and lost. I hoped that maybe, through this process, I could start putting those pieces back together.

With each stir of the resin, with each drop of pigment, I felt my curiosity begin to shift into something more. This wasn’t just an experiment—it was an act of creation, a chance to shape something tangible from my grief. As I poured my first layer of resin, I could feel the nervous energy in my hands start to settle. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. And in that moment, I realized that this simple act of creation was more than just art; it was a lifeline, a way to start building something beautiful out of everything I thought I’d lost.