Chapter 3: First Creations and Awkward Beginnings
The first time I sat down to mix resin, I could feel my heart racing. My hands trembled slightly as I measured out the components, pouring them into a mixing cup with a careful, tentative touch. I wasn’t sure what I was doing—I barely understood the chemistry involved—and a voice in the back of my mind kept whispering doubts: What if you mess this up? What if it turns out terrible? But despite the fear and uncertainty, I kept going. It wasn’t just about making something beautiful; it was about proving to myself that I could create, that I could try.
For my first project, I chose to create a small ashtray with embedded lights. It was an unusual choice, and I knew it might not turn out perfect. But that was the point—it was a low-stakes experiment, something I could approach with a sense of freedom. I wanted to create something whimsical and unexpected, something that would defy the seriousness of my emotions. In its own way, this quirky ashtray was a small act of rebellion against my fear of failing. It felt like a reminder that art doesn’t have to be perfect or profound; it can just be fun.
As I mixed the resin with the pigments, watching the colors swirl together, I felt a tiny flicker of joy. The process was calming, almost meditative, as I slowly stirred the components until they transformed into a glossy, liquid canvas. It felt like a fresh breath after being submerged in the suffocating weight of grief. I carefully poured the resin into the mold, embedding the small lights with a sense of curiosity. What would happen when it set? Would it even work?
The waiting was the hardest part. I had to be patient, allowing the resin to cure over hours, resisting the urge to touch it too soon. In those moments, I realized that working with resin was about more than just creating art—it was about letting go of control and trusting the process. I couldn’t rush it, just as I couldn’t rush my own healing. Both would take time.
When I finally unmolded my creation, it wasn’t perfect. The resin had a few bubbles, the lights weren’t evenly placed, and the colors blended in unexpected ways. But as I held it in my hands, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride. It was real, it was tangible, and most importantly, I had made it. It wasn’t flawless, but it was a piece of my journey—a first step toward something new.
That little ashtray became more than just an art project. It was a symbol of possibility, of what could happen when I allowed myself to try without fear of failure. It marked the beginning of a new chapter, one where I could express myself without judgment, explore without expectation, and find joy in creation. Creating that simple piece gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. It reminded me that even the smallest act of creativity could be a form of breathing, of coming back to life after drowning in sorrow.
It wasn’t about being good at it; it was about taking the first step—awkward, messy, and imperfect as it was—and finding a way forward. Each time I look at that quirky ashtray, I see more than just resin and lights. I see a flicker of courage, a glimmer of joy, and the beginning of a journey that would transform me in ways I never imagined.