September always feels like a fresh start — new notebooks, sharpened pencils, the hum of back-to-school energy. This year is extra special, because my son has just started TK. He already knows his alphabet, and now he’s learning to write his own letters.

It takes me back to the time when he was in this same season of discovery, pointing out letters the way my daughter does today. Back then, his eyes would light up whenever he recognized a shape. Now, when I practice calligraphy, he still leans over my desk, excited to name each letter and ask questions about it.

That curiosity reminds me of something simple but powerful: letters are more than symbols. They’re beginnings. Every word, every idea, every story starts with a single line, a single letter.

That’s why I designed my own alphabet, inspired by the flowing Cyrillic skoropis, but reinterpreted in my style. Each letter is a reminder that everything meaningful starts with a small, deliberate mark.

I create calligraphy not just for beauty, but to invite curiosity, connection, and reflection. Because letters come first — and from them, all stories unfold.

I came across this phrase on a friend’s shorts, and instantly, it felt like it was written for me. It captured exactly what I was holding inside—unspoken frustration, raw emotion, the kind of anger that refuses to be smoothed over.

When I wrote this line, I wasn’t trying to be polite. I wasn’t trying to soften my edges.I was angry—at the world, at those who refuse to look beyond their own corner, at the cramped horizons that leave no room for empathy or wonder. And instead of burying that feeling, I gave it a voice.

Baba Yaga showed up.
That wild, terrifying, untamed figure from folklore—the one who refuses to be nice, who refuses to bend. For a moment, I understood her. The impulse to retreat into the woods, to guard your space, to toss away the ones who won’t respect it.

This piece is about anger, yes. But more than that—it’s about permission. The permission to feel all of it: rage, weariness, grief. Emotions that are often labeled “ugly” or “wrong.” I believe they have their own truth. And when we let them surface, they don’t destroy us—they clarify us.

So this artwork is not just a joke in calligraphy. It’s a reminder that anger has a place. That even in discomfort, there is honesty. And that sometimes, the only way forward is through the fire.

I’ve always been fascinated by opposites — chaos and calm, black and white, freedom and boundaries.
This quote found me at just the right moment — the kind that makes you pause and rethink what you thought you knew about freedom.
It stayed with me, quietly asking questions I couldn’t ignore.

I couldn’t get it out of my mind. It made me realize how often we hold onto words like freedom, love, or kindness — but forget their full meaning.

So I turned it into art.
I wanted this piece to feel like a visual echo of that thought — where the meaning lives not only in the letters, but also in the quiet spaces between them.

Because maybe true freedom begins when we stop measuring who deserves it and start believing it belongs to everyone.

Everyone told me the average first labor lasts 12–18 hours. I believed them. I pictured myself in that range, somewhere in the middle—safe, “normal,” just like the statistics promised.

But then my labor stretched to 36 hours. I hadn’t done anything differently, but suddenly I was outside the bounds of “average.” In that moment, I realized how fragile the idea of belonging is—how quickly you can cross an invisible line between “us” and “them,” without even moving.

Much later, when I talked with other moms and saw new research, I understood just how rare my experience was. What felt extreme wasn’t impossible, but it was uncommon. That invisible line was real—but only in how it shaped my perception.

This artwork captures that truth. It reminds us that the divisions we draw—average and rare, belonging and otherness—are often invisible until we cross them. And when we do, we see how much those lines exist in perception, not reality.

I came across this phrase on a friend’s shorts, and instantly, it felt like it was written for me. It captured exactly what I was holding inside—unspoken frustration, raw emotion, the kind of anger that refuses to be smoothed over.

When I wrote this line, I wasn’t trying to be polite. I wasn’t trying to soften my edges.I was angry—at the world, at those who refuse to look beyond their own corner, at the cramped horizons that leave no room for empathy or wonder. And instead of burying that feeling, I gave it a voice.

Baba Yaga showed up.
That wild, terrifying, untamed figure from folklore—the one who refuses to be nice, who refuses to bend. For a moment, I understood her. The impulse to retreat into the woods, to guard your space, to toss away the ones who won’t respect it.

This piece is about anger, yes. But more than that—it’s about permission. The permission to feel all of it: rage, weariness, grief. Emotions that are often labeled “ugly” or “wrong.” I believe they have their own truth. And when we let them surface, they don’t destroy us—they clarify us.

So this artwork is not just a joke in calligraphy. It’s a reminder that anger has a place. That even in discomfort, there is honesty. And that sometimes, the only way forward is through the fire.

The long, scribbly lines that my daughter draw, took me straight back to my childhood and the shredded couch that fell victim to Timofey, my ginger-and-white feline agent of chaos. Naturally, this inspired me to play with the idea of a "cat-astrophe" and the chaos a cat can cause.

Another playful term for the shredded couch, thanks to my childhood cat Timofey: cat chaos, one claw at a time.