My first experiment with painting was in 1994 when I was working as a nanny. I played around with the paints that one of my kids had, and I remember feeling alive when I stroked the brush against the page. I remember being struck by the vibrance of the colors. I remember thinking that Jerry Garcia was both a singer and painter. I remember musing about the connection between music and visual art. I was moved by the paintings of Henri Matisse. My style was like his... or at least I wanted it to be if I ever had a style. Freeflowing. Abstract. Bright. Moving.

Then I abruptly stopped painting before I travelled anywhere in my soul. I felt inadequate because I was not trained as a painter. I felt frustrated because I didn’t have the supplies. More than that I was afraid, terrified of the journey into my soul. If I put on the page what I felt in my soul, I was sure to be rejected. Hidden inside was an ugliness that I couldn’t admit... shouldn’t admit. It was easier to be silent than to be honest.

Through the years, I often heard the call of the paints, brushes and canvases. I wanted to express myself, but I criticized my self-expression before it was even a pencil sketch. “You can’t paint that. You can’t think that. You can’t feel that. You can’t. You can't. You can't. Bad girl!” Part of the reason for the self-chastisement was my own religiousness — don’t talk about fear or pain, just smile and everything will be okay. The other part of the reason for my self-criticism was my desire to be perfect. If I let this darkness out of my soul, I would be telling the world that I wasn’t perfect; I would be acknowledging that there was a disconnect between my internal swirl and my placid appearance.

In 2007, I joined a women’s group that studied The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. It’s a dangerous book for people who are used to hiding. Cameron calls us out and challenges us to silence the critic and find our voice. My daily journaling focused on questions and issues rather than just serving as a written record of my daily activities. I began to take time each week to play and create. Although I didn’t speak at the meetings, I was drinking in the conversation. This experience was quenching the thirstiness of my soul. After many months, I started to paint.

Over the past ten years, the way I live life has changed. I now value process and create to release what is going on inside me. It’s healthy to work through the questions, the pain and the darkness in order to come out into the light on the other side. Giving myself this space has helped me be more gracious with others, both adults and children. It has also helped me be present in their times of doubt and sadness. What a relief to know that I don’t have to have all the answers.

According to Brackett, Palomera, Mojsa, Reyes, & Salovey (2010), teachers who recognize, understand, label, express and regulate their own emotions are less likely to burnout. Why? They are dealing with their stuff, and when we deal with our stuff we create the capacity within ourselves to be patient, empathetic, communicative and safe for others. It’s like the announcement from the flight attendant before take-off, “If the cabin loses air pressure, be sure to put on your own oxygen mask first before helping those seated next to you.”

I think one of the biggest obstacles as educators and parents is getting over the idea that taking care of ourselves is in some way selfish. It’s not. Giving our souls time and space to breathe helps us be better for our kids.

Whether it’s painting, journaling, joining a small group, singing, exercising, camping, seeing a counselor, dancing, hiking… I encourage you to do what you need to do. Take good care.