Chapter 4: The Joy and Healing of Creation
What started as a curious experiment with resin quickly became something much deeper: a lifeline, a source of healing I hadn’t anticipated. Each time I worked with resin, it offered me more than just an artistic outlet—it became a form of therapy, a space where I could find relief from the pain of loss and the weight of unanswered questions.
As I mixed the resin, watching it shift and move, I felt an unexpected sense of peace. The colors were rich and alive, flowing with a vibrancy that seemed to mirror what I was trying to rediscover within myself. Pouring the resin and seeing it swirl with pigments felt like watching something beautiful come into being from what, just moments before, was nothing but liquid and dye. There was a freedom in it, a kind of surrender to the process, as I let the resin settle, ripple, and set in its own way. It was a reminder that not everything had to be controlled or understood; some things could simply be created and appreciated as they were.
Each session felt like entering a world outside of time. Hours would pass, yet it felt like minutes as I became fully absorbed in the process. I could let go of my worries and lose myself in the flow, giving myself permission to be present and fully immersed in the act of creation. The process of working with resin—pouring, swirling, layering—allowed me to step outside of my grief, if only for a while, and find a calm I hadn’t experienced in a long time.
Every piece I created, every swirl of color, felt like a tiny step forward. I was slowly piecing myself back together with each new project. In the art world I was creating for myself, mistakes weren’t failures—they were part of the process, part of what made each piece unique. If a color didn’t blend perfectly or a bubble appeared, it didn’t mean I had failed; it simply meant the piece was taking on its own character. Resin was teaching me to let go of perfectionism, to embrace the imperfections as part of the beauty.
Resin art didn’t just fill the empty hours; it filled an emotional void. It gave me a tangible way to express feelings that I didn’t have words for, to channel my emotions into something I could hold in my hands. Every time I looked at a finished piece, I saw more than the colors and patterns—I saw my own resilience, my journey, my healing. The resin’s glossy surface reflected my own growth, my ability to move forward even in the face of loss.
This art became more than just a hobby; it was a space where I could connect with myself, where I could find joy even in the midst of sorrow. Resin showed me that healing isn’t always about “moving on” or “letting go”—sometimes it’s about creating something new, letting the colors and textures of life fill the spaces that once felt hollow. Resin art became my way of honoring both my grief and my ability to rebuild, one swirl of color at a time.