The paper crinkled in my fingers as I folded it. This sketch was just like all my past attempts at drawing: ugly, unproportional, and confirmed my daily affirmation: Sophia Rose can’t draw. I stood up from my desk, and walked quietly to the trashcan, where I disposed of my third sketch of the day. When I was young, everything I made had to be perfect. And for the most part, I succeeded. My bed was meticulously made. My clothes were wrinkle-free. My math homework had all the numbers evenly spaced. Except for when I sat down to draw. I worshipped my mother growing up. She homeschooled me throughout elementary school, and I adored spending the day being taught by her. Except for when art rolled around. Despite my love for my mother, I just couldn’t get myself to enjoy the subject. Each day I would stare down at my paper, lip wobbling, as she praised my sketches. Despite the flaws that I made sure to point out to her, each day she would take my hand and lead me to the fridge, where she added my drawing to her growing collection of works. My mother loved my art, and I couldn’t bear to enter the kitchen, for fear of the fridge. Then the pandemic hit. I had nothing to do, and though I tried my hardest to ignore it, my mother’s constant encouragement rang in my head until I couldn’t stand it any longer. One day, I chose to pull my sketchbook out of the dark drawer that was its home, and started to doodle. A first for me. After a few minutes passed, I pulled the sketchbook closer. Then hunched over. And then the floodgates opened. Pent up sketches flowed out of my pencil, one after the other. I sat there all day, ignoring my schoolwork as I just let myself create. By the end of the day, I had filled ten pages with everything from flowers to characters in the book I was reading. From then on, I sat down every day with a pencil and just let myself create. My mother was shocked, and when she asked me why I was so suddenly interested in art, I told her. I told her all about my self hatred, my jealousy of my peers who just allowed themselves to create. She cried with me, and the next day, there was my very own art kit on my bed, which was immediately put to use. From that day forward, I started putting my own drawings on the fridge, and allowed myself to accept my mother's praise. Nowadays, I’m a much different person. I can’t say that my bed is always made, and that my math homework is particularly neat. But my drive to create has become a dominant feature in my life. I doodle what I ate for lunch; I sketch the people in my classes. I’ve done murals in my school, and paint backdrops for school events. I can confidently say that because of my mother, I’ve found my passion for drawing and feel confident turning it into my future. I didn’t grow up loving art. But I did grow up with someone in my corner. And that has made all the difference.

Drawings on the fridge. Pencils scattered across the floor. Paint smears on new clothes. That’s not what my childhood looked like. When I was young, I was quite resentful of those kids who could let themselves create anything they wanted, anything that popped into their mind. Everything I made had to be perfect. If it wasn’t, I would fold it up carefully, tiptoe very quietly to the trash can, and gently place the paper inside. My mother homeschooled my brother and I during elementary school. She packed our day with many subjects I didn’t enjoy, but the worst class of the day was art. She didn’t make it difficult; all we had to do was draw three things around the house each day. It was still torturous. Every line I placed down was wrong, the graphite would smear and smudge onto my hand, and my finished product always had water stained tear marks. Then the pandemic hit. I had nothing to do, and though I tried my hardest to ignore it, my sketchbook was staring at me. The truth is, my hatred of the class had nothing to do with the tasks, but my inability to meet my own high expectations. I was completely devastated that I couldn’t bring the things in my head to life like I wanted to. So I chose to do something about it. Each day, I would sit down with a pencil and try my best to improve myself. I didn’t let myself rip out pages, didn’t allow a tear to drop, didn’t stare at a sketch after finishing it. All I did was draw, like those kids I was so painfully jealous of when I was younger. And slowly, I improved. Slowly, I started to love art. Slowly, I transformed from someone ashamed of their art, to someone who would share it with anyone who would humor me. I didn’t grow up loving art. I taught myself to forgive and love myself, and then my creations. I haven’t stopped creating, but I did stop painting for a long time. That was until I saw the works of Ivan Aivazovsky. He was a Russian painter during the 1800’s, whose passion was painting the ocean with vibrant, detailed brushstrokes. His love for the sea is evident in his works, and I aspire to emulate that passion in my art. Following graduation I hope to become a graphic designer, and then transition to become an art teacher. With those extra years of self improvement under my belt, I hope to inspire young people just like me, who can’t bear to mess up. I will show them mistakes are a part of learning, and that they are not less of a person because of them. Because every artist was first an amateur.

When I was young, I swore to myself that my mother would never have to drive herself. From the backseat, I'd watch her push through a migraine on long drives home- Her hands would grip the wheel tighter, the radio silenced, and all I could hear was the sound of my thoughts. In those moments, I promised myself, “When I’m sixteen, everything will be different”. The first time I had to drive her was when I was fifteen, after getting my permit. I felt like I could single-handedly cure her migraines. Maybe if I drove carefully enough, she wouldn't feel the sharp turn onto our road. I thought I could ease her pain, just by avoiding the potholes on the road. I was naive, but I felt grown up. It wasn't because I could drive; it was being able to show her that I could take care of her. I learned then that kindness isn’t always grand gestures- it's choosing to ease someone's burden, even in small ways. I notice now, more and more often, the opportunities we all have, to ease someone's pain. My mother has a smile that lights up the room. Even when wracked with pain, she continues to smile, continues to give kindness, even when life hasn't been fair to her. She's crafted a way of life that I aspire to obtain; always patient and kind, even when hurting. She is a positive and sweet soul, always encouraging me. If I could embody even a fraction of her warmth and resilience, I would know I'm on the right path. My path has been paved by my mother's encouragement. On long car rides, I would wield a pencil, sketching whatever I could see outside- trees, clouds, the occasional bird. My mother would flip through my doodles, always gasping in awe until I was convinced I was the next DaVinci. My drawings weren't particularly impressive; but to her, they were masterpieces. Never once has she stopped encouraging me, not even when her headaches drove her to be bedridden for months. This constant reassurance and love has helped me become confident in my passion for art. Because of her support, I’ve felt comfortable enough to consider making it a career. In college I plan to pursue industrial design, to utilize my skills in research, communication, and drawing. It’s a difficult program, but I know that my mother will support me through it all. My mother is my superhero. She has given me love, kindness, and encouragement, even in pain. I could never repay her for everything she's done for me, never truly make her understand how much she's taught me, with her quiet strength. The only thing I can do is to take care of her in small ways, like driving her when she can’t. It's a simple act, but she's taught me that the small things mean the most.