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.

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’ve been working on a new piece for my Sound of Music collection — a series where I translate rhythm and emotion into calligraphy. For this one, I wanted to go bigger: 18x24 inches. I used the same technique I normally use for smaller pieces, like 12x12 — gluing paper to a wood panel. But this time, it didn’t work.

The edges didn’t stick. The paper bubbled and lifted in places. I stood there staring at it, frustrated and unsure if I should try to fix it or throw it away.

And through all of this, I had Elton John playing in the background — as usual. I realized we always end up listening to him on road trips. It’s become our travel soundtrack. This time, two songs kept playing on repeat: “Rocket Man” and “I’m Still Standing.” Both stayed with me. I hadn’t picked one for the piece yet.

But then something shifted.

What if I didn’t fix it? What if I let it be part of the piece?

I peeled off what I could and left the rest. The torn, imperfect paper became the background. And just like that, I knew the song: I’m Still Standing.

Because sometimes, standing strong doesn’t mean pushing harder — it means letting go. Trusting the process. Letting things unfold, even if it looks nothing like what you planned.

This piece taught me that again.

I’m still standing. Not because I fought harder —
but because I finally stopped fighting at all.