When I was young, my sister and I were taken from my mother’s custody and placed into foster care. My father was not in our lives and struggled with addiction, so we eventually went to live with my grandmother. Even through that instability, I never stopped loving my mom or hoping things could be different. When I was seventeen, I moved back in with her, believing we could finally have a normal life. For a while, it felt possible. But as her struggles with addiction and mental illness returned, everything began to fall apart again. I was eighteen and felt responsible for saving her. I tried to hold everything together, not understanding that love alone cannot fix those kinds of struggles. The night she passed away, she told me she was going to stay up drawing. Art had always been her escape, the place she went when everything else felt overwhelming. I had a bad feeling about leaving and offered to stay with her, but she hugged me, told me she loved me, and insisted I go out and enjoy myself. When I came home the next morning, I found her on the couch, her face resting on a drawing, her phone still in her hand. At first, I thought it was not real. I called her name, walked in and out of the house, waiting for her to respond. When I touched her hand and felt how cold it was, everything changed. Grief like that is difficult to explain. That morning feels distant, almost unreal, like something I am watching instead of something I lived through. What I do know is that in that moment, my life shifted completely. I am grateful every day that my younger sister did not have to experience that. Carrying that memory is heavy, but I accept it as something I hold so she does not have to. After losing my mom, I went back to live with my grandmother. She gave me something I had been missing for most of my life, stability. She did not try to fix everything or make empty promises. She simply showed up, consistently and without conditions. That kind of quiet, steady love meant everything to me. My grandma is my biggest source of strength and role model. Eventually I enrolled in community college just to prove I was okay, but I found a purpose. Through art, I have learned how to turn pain into something meaningful. Art became my way of processing grief and understanding my experiences. When the School of the Art Institute of Chicago reached out to me, I realized that what started as a coping mechanism could become a future. My work focuses on memory, loss, and longing, and it allows me to honor my mom while also finding my own voice. What I have been through has shaped me in difficult ways, but it has also given me direction. It taught me empathy, resilience, and the importance of using my voice. I cannot change what happened, but I can honor my mom through my work and build a future that proves cycles can be broken.

When I was young, my sister and I were taken from my mother’s custody and placed into foster care. My father was not in our lives and struggled with addiction, so we eventually went to live with my grandmother. Even through that instability, I never stopped loving my mom or hoping things could be different. When I was seventeen, I moved back in with her, believing we could finally have a normal life. For a while, it felt possible. But as her struggles with addiction and mental illness returned, everything began to fall apart again. I was eighteen and felt responsible for saving her. I tried to hold everything together, not understanding that love alone cannot fix those kinds of struggles. The night she passed away, she told me she was going to stay up drawing. Art had always been her escape, the place she went when everything else felt overwhelming. I had a bad feeling about leaving and offered to stay with her, but she hugged me, told me she loved me, and insisted I go out and enjoy myself. When I came home the next morning, I found her on the couch, her face resting on a drawing, her phone still in her hand. At first, I thought it was not real. I called her name, walked in and out of the house, waiting for her to respond. When I touched her hand and felt how cold it was, everything changed. Grief like that is difficult to explain. That morning feels distant, almost unreal, like something I am watching instead of something I lived through. What I do know is that in that moment, my life shifted completely. I am grateful every day that my younger sister did not have to experience that. Carrying that memory is heavy, but I accept it as something I hold so she does not have to. After losing my mom, I went back to live with my grandmother. She gave me something I had been missing for most of my life, stability. She did not try to fix everything or make empty promises. She simply showed up, consistently and without conditions. That kind of quiet, steady love meant everything to me. My grandma is my biggest source of strength and role model. Eventually I enrolled in community college just to prove I was okay, but I found a purpose. Through art, I have learned how to turn pain into something meaningful. Art became my way of processing grief and understanding my experiences. When the School of the Art Institute of Chicago reached out to me, I realized that what started as a coping mechanism could become a future. My work focuses on memory, loss, and longing, and it allows me to honor my mom while also finding my own voice. What I have been through has shaped me in difficult ways, but it has also given me direction. It taught me empathy, resilience, and the importance of using my voice. I cannot change what happened, but I can honor my mom through my work and build a future that proves cycles can be broken.

When I was young, my sister and I were taken from my mother’s custody and placed into foster care. My father was not in our lives and struggled with addiction, so we eventually went to live with my grandmother. My childhood was unstable and often confusing, but one thing never changed. I loved my mom deeply, and I always held onto hope that things could be different. When I was seventeen, I moved back in with her, believing we were finally getting a second chance at being a normal family. For a while, it felt real. She was doing better, and I allowed myself to believe that things were finally going to be okay. But slowly, things began to change. Her struggles with addiction were a flawed way for her to cope with schizophrenia. I found myself in a role I was not prepared for. I was eighteen, still trying to figure out my own life, but I felt responsible for saving hers. I tried to support her, encourage her, and hold everything together. At the time, I did not understand that love alone cannot fix addiction or mental illness. Being in that environment changed my sense of what was normal. Things that should have felt alarming started to feel routine. Over time, her condition worsened, and I watched the person I loved begin to slip away. Still, I held onto hope that I could reach her. The night she passed away, she told me she was going to stay up drawing. Art had always been her escape. I had a bad feeling about leaving and offered to stay with her, but she insisted I go out. When I came home the next morning, I found her on the couch, her face resting on a drawing. At first, it did not feel real. I called her name and waited for her to respond, but when I touched her hand and felt how cold it was, everything changed. That moment reshaped how I see the world. I am grateful every day that my younger sister did not have to experience that. Carrying that memory is heavy, but I accept it as something I hold so she does not have to. After losing my mom, I returned to live with my grandmother. She gave me stability when I needed it most. She did not try to fix everything. She simply showed up for me, every day. That kind of steady, unconditional support meant everything and showed me what it really means to be there for someone. My grandma is my biggest source of strength and stability. I enrolled in community college at first just to show her that I was okay, but I found something more. I found purpose. Art became my way of processing grief and making sense of everything I had been through. When the School of the Arts Institute of Chicago reached out to me I realized my passion could become a career. My work focuses on memory, loss, and longing, and it allows me to honor my mom while also finding my own voice. What I have been through has shaped me in difficult ways, but it has also given me direction. It taught me empathy, resilience, and the importance of using my voice. I cannot change what happened, but I can honor my mom through my work and build a future that proves cycles can be broken.

maynardgirl Alexandra Buck This piece is a focal point in a larger body of work I created. This is a reimagining of a painting originally made by my mother. For this, I used acrylic paint, paint markers, and charcoal to replicate her image while also making it my own. I wanted to stay true to what she created, but also bring in my own perspective. Through this process, I was able to reconnect with her, not just as my mom, but as an artist. What started as an art exercise became something much deeper. It turned into a way for me to understand her mental state and the reality she was experiencing at the time. It also became a way for me to process my grief and turn her story into something tangible that I can hold onto. Creating this piece allowed me to feel connected to her in a way that words never could. The original image is surreal, shaped by the way she experienced reality through a distorted lens. I chose to keep the composition the same to respect and preserve the structure of her vision. At the same time, I made intentional adjustments to the figures, clarifying certain features to make the image less distorted. By changing the figures while keeping the composition intact, the piece exists in a space between her vision and mine. It becomes a shared visual language where both of our perspectives can exist together. The material holds personal significance for me, becoming part of the narrative rather than a neutral tool. Acrylic paint provides a strong foundation and structure for the piece. I leaned heavily into acrylic marker as an intentional homage to my mom, she would sit and draw with them all day. In this way, both the imagery and the medium carry meaning. The markers also allowed me to add more controlled and precise details, helping define certain elements. In contrast, charcoal brings a raw and unstable quality, it is also one of my favorite mediums to use. It moves more freely and unpredictably across the surface, reflecting the emotional intensity and lack of control associated with psychosis. The combination of these materials represents both her state of mind and my attempt to understand and reinterpret it. As part of a larger body of work, this piece is part of an ongoing exploration of memory, loss, and interpretation. Each recreation helps me better understand her experiences while also allowing me to develop my own voice as an artist. I am preserving parts of her perspective while reshaping them through my own lens. Ultimately, this work is about connection, loss, and understanding. It shows how art can keep parts of someone alive even after they are gone, and how revisiting those parts can become a way of healing. By combining her vision with mine, I am continuing a conversation that goes beyond her life and lives on through my work.

My name is Alexandra Buck, and my life has been shaped by both the damage of substance abuse and the resilience that can grow in its aftermath. When I was eight years old, I was removed from my mother’s custody and placed into foster care before eventually living with my grandmother. My childhood was marked by instability, and by deep love for my mom. When I was seventeen, I moved back in with her. She had struggled with substance abuse for years, which I now understand was her way of coping with untreated schizophrenia and constant mental distress. At first, she was doing well. I believed we were finally getting our chance to be a normal family. But slowly, things changed. She began misusing her prescribed medication. I was eighteen, still a kid in many ways, but suddenly I felt responsible for saving my mother. I tried to monitor her, to encourage her, to hold everything together. I didn’t understand that love alone cannot cure addiction or mental illness. Being in that environment also distorted my sense of normalcy, and I became dependent on substances myself. It was ultimately my choice, but the exposure made it feel ordinary rather than dangerous. Over the following year, my mom’s condition worsened. Someone in her life introduced her to stronger pills, and I watched her slip further away. The woman who had been my best friend began to disappear. Still, I held onto hope that I could reach her. The night she died, she told me she was going to stay up drawing. Art was her sanctuary. I had a bad feeling about leaving and offered to stay with her, but she hugged me, told me she loved me, and insisted I go out and have fun. When I came home the next morning, I found her on the couch, her face resting on a drawing, her phone still in her hand. At first, I thought it was a joke. I called her name, paced in and out of the front door, waiting for her to wake up. Then I touched her hand and felt how cold it was. Grief like that is hard to describe. My memories from that morning feel blurred, like television static. What I do know is that in that moment, everything changed. I am grateful every day that my younger sister did not find her. Carrying that memory is heavy, but I accept that I was meant to protect her from it. From that day forward, I never touched substances again. Loss forced me to confront the reality of addiction, not as something abstract, but as something that steals people you love. I returned to live with my grandmother and enrolled in community college, initially just to reassure her that I was okay. But in the classroom, I found something unexpected: purpose. Art became my way of surviving grief. I create work centered on loss, memory, and longing visual tributes to my mother and to the quiet ache left behind by addiction. Through art, I transform pain into something that can connect with others. When a representative from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago reached out to me, I realized my coping mechanism could become a career, a way to give meaning to what I endured. Substance abuse shaped my life through tragedy, it also shaped my direction. It taught me empathy, resilience, and the urgency of using my voice. I cannot change what happened to my mother, but I can honor her through my work and build a future that proves cycles can be broken.