Untitled: The Story Behind The Drawing

I want to tell you a little secret: I am a very sensitive, many times insecure, and easily embarrassed person. It’s not a big or shocking secret, I know, but it has had a big impact on my life since childhood. I did learn to act tougher, gained confidence in many areas of life, and learned to play the game and put my embarrassment aside as I grew older, but the core is still there when things get close and intimate.

Love and art are close and intimate for me. When I am exposed, that shy and insecure side is exposed as well. The result? I feel vulnerable.

My upbringing was partially attentive to my delicate, shy soul. I say partially because, alongside the close family bonds, love, and laughter, there were also comparisons, harsh judgments, prohibitions, and sometimes pure insults. I grew up split, not knowing where my true value comes from: was it performance-based, appearance-based, or status-based? The thought that value could exist in me merely because I am me did not even cross my mind.

Untitled, Graphite on Paper, 42 x 30 cm, 2025

I tried EVERYTHING: I spent years basing my value on how sexually desired I was and how pretty others thought I was. I worked hard and ignored my health until I became chronically ill (that didn’t stop me either). I also needed to prove I was smart and studied, and got degrees and certificates in various fields. But all that was not enough. Maybe because it can never be enough. I never felt deserving of good things unless I gave something in exchange or had some proven worth. But proving myself became endless, leaving me constantly hungry for more.

For that reason, yoga and Buddhism were wonderful for me. I could let go of the materialistic and find a connection to something deeper and greater. I needed saving, and I found it. But I brought the suppression of my true needs and wishes into that system, too. I brought the feeling of unworthiness there, too. So, on the one hand, Eastern philosophies and practices saved me, and on the other hand, they dug the hole of my desperate need for validation and worth even deeper, and I kept escaping from being who I am and facing my pain.

After a few years into the practice, and especially after becoming a teacher myself, I felt okay only if I was aligned with yogi values, which, of course, meant harsh self-judgment and continuous suppression of parts of myself in the name of fitting in.

It led to a point where I didn’t have the fuel needed for all the generous service I was encouraged to give, and I collapsed. I started to doubt the way, my faith was weakened, my bulimia symptoms came back, and I started to feel more lost than ever.

That crisis brought up a lot of anger; I felt betrayed by what was supposed to save me. What I thought was the absolute truth felt like a lie, and I was devastated. But even though that happened, I still couldn’t let go of the image I had created, and I was afraid to be openly vocal about my doubts and process. I couldn’t bear the thought of being kicked out of the yoga community or seen as not good enough of a person. The truth is, I felt like a failure.

Untitled #2, Graphite on Paper, 42 x 29.7 cm, 2025

Forgiving myself for what was takes time, and it’s easier to blame everything and everyone around instead of looking into the pain that got me there; the pain of living life suppressing my dreams and hiding that I’m a sensitive human. I’m not saying all is great with yoga, Buddhism, other methods, or the people who teach them, but I can’t change them. I can only take responsibility for myself and my part in things. A painful point is that it’s hard to separate responsibility from feelings of blame or guilt, and it’s natural for them to sometimes mix. The processing and separation take time. And then, when responsibility stands on its own, forgiveness can emerge.

This drawing demonstrates the feeling of being choked by the false identity I’ve adopted, by my own image. In the drawing, my arms are in eagle pose: my arms crossed and entwined in front of my chest, with the elbows lifted. But the palms, instead of being pressed together, are covering my mouth; silenced by the fear of change and its outcomes, and by the fear of living life with integrity.

While writing all of this, I became curious: how do you feel when you look at this drawing?

Have you ever questioned any part of your identity?

What will happen if you let them go or create a change?