From an early age, I have felt a deep connection to animals. That love began with the pets I grew up alongside, but it was cats, in particular, that captured my imagination. Ironically, during the early 2000s, cat-themed merchandise was surprisingly scarce. Popular culture seemed overwhelmingly devoted to dogs, leaving little space for someone who adored felines. Unable to find the things I wanted, I began creating them myself. What started as necessity soon became a passion for making art.

Even the teasing I received as a child strengthened my resolve. Hearing classmates insist that dogs were superior or that cats "had no souls" sparked a quiet determination within me. At just eight years old, I wanted to show people there was beauty, intelligence, and personality in these animals that so many overlooked. Looking back, those small moments of resistance planted the seeds for both my artistic voice and my lifelong advocacy for animals

When I was five years old, I met the cat who would shape so much of my life.

Lacy was one of six kittens, but the moment I saw her tiny tuxedo markings, I refused to leave without her. It was just before my birthday, and after enough pleading, my mom agreed to let me bring her home. At the time, neither of us could have imagined that this little black-and-white kitten would become my closest companion for the next nineteen years.

Even as a young child, I understood that caring for another living creature was a privilege. Looking after Lacy became one of my greatest sources of pride. Feeding her, playing with her, and making sure she was happy gave me a sense of purpose long before I had the words to describe it. That responsibility nurtured not only my compassion but also my desire to celebrate animals through art.

Not long afterward, my family's life changed dramatically. The 2008 financial crisis affected us deeply. My parents lost our home, my father lost his job, and with another baby on the way, stability became something we struggled to find.

The years that followed were defined by constant change. We moved frequently as my father worked tirelessly to provide for our growing family, taking whatever opportunities he could before eventually building a career in private contracting. Rent increases, homes being sold, and changing circumstances often meant packing everything we owned and starting over somewhere new.

While my father always made sure we had what we needed, the constant moving made it difficult to establish roots. Every new school meant starting over socially, trying to find my place among classmates who had already grown up together. Friendships were often temporary, and I frequently felt like an outsider looking in.

Through every move, every new house, and every new school, Lacy remained the one constant in my life.

I poured countless hours into drawing and painting her. Her portrait appeared in the margins of homework assignments, on the backs of tests, and across the pages of every sketchbook I owned. What began as simple drawings gradually became something more meaningful. My devotion to caring for her evolved into a desire to preserve her—to capture her personality, her expressions, and the quiet comfort she brought me through whatever medium I could learn.

Looking back, I realize I wasn't simply drawing my cat. I was documenting the one piece of home that never changed.

When I was twelve years old, my family changed once again. Through both adoption and birth, our household grew, and I suddenly found myself as the oldest of five younger siblings. Around the same time, complications during my youngest brother's birth led to years of serious health challenges for my mother. She spent long periods on bed rest and continued to navigate ongoing medical issues long after he was born.

As my father worked to support our family, many of the day-to-day responsibilities at home naturally fell to me. I helped care for my younger siblings, managed household chores, and did whatever I could to make life a little easier for my parents. It wasn't something I questioned—it was simply what our family needed.

School gradually became less of a priority. My grades slipped as my responsibilities at home increased, and like many teenagers, I was also trying to navigate the usual challenges of growing up. The difference was that those years were shaped as much by responsibility as they were by adolescence. Financial stress, uncertainty, and the needs of a large family weighed heavily on me, often leaving little time or energy for myself.

Throughout it all, art remained my constant.

No matter where I was needed or how chaotic life became, a sketchbook and a pencil could always come with me. They were quiet, portable, and unobtrusive. Whether I was waiting during appointments, sitting with my siblings, or simply stealing a few moments for myself, drawing became the one place where I could process everything I was experiencing.

During my eighth-grade year, my family relocated to Vancouver, Washington, where they still live today. The move brought us closer to the medical care my mother needed, eliminating the long trips that had once become routine. It also marked the beginning of another new chapter for our family as we prepared to welcome yet another sibling.

Starting over in a new city was familiar by then, but entering high school brought a different set of challenges. I transferred from a small school district into a much larger one and quickly found myself enrolled in advanced academic courses. Although I worked hard, I struggled to keep up and repeatedly asked to be moved into standard-level classes where I knew I could succeed. My requests were denied, and I was left feeling frustrated and unheard. I managed to maintain passing grades, but I knew I was capable of more if I had been given the opportunity to learn in an environment better suited to my needs.

Outside of school, I often missed the milestones that define adolescence. Birthday parties, school events, and time with friends frequently gave way to responsibilities at home, especially when my father was working and my mother needed extra help. While I understood why those sacrifices were necessary, they often left me feeling isolated from my peers.

Home itself offered very little solitude. I didn't mind sharing space with my siblings, but there was rarely a moment that truly belonged to me. My days were spent helping care for the household, and quiet time was hard to come by.

The one place that consistently felt like my own was the art classroom.

For the first time, I found an environment that encouraged curiosity rather than obligation. My art teacher introduced me to new materials and techniques, taught me how to write artist statements, and encouraged me to apply for exhibitions. While he often challenged me to move beyond painting animals, I remained stubbornly devoted to them. I remember telling him, "I'd rather become exceptional at one subject I'm passionate about than be average at many."

Although I held my ground, his encouragement still expanded my practice. He introduced me to polymer clay, which would later influence the sculptural details in my dragon pieces, and during my senior year, I began exploring the female figure for the first time. Those experiences broadened my artistic perspective without ever diminishing the deep connection I felt to animals.

By the time I graduated, art was no longer just an escape. It had become the language through which I understood both the world around me and my place within it.

As I grew older, my artwork gradually began to change alongside me.

My fascination with animals never disappeared, but I found myself becoming equally captivated by people. During my junior and senior years of high school, I immersed myself in philosophy, psychology, and studies of human behavior. I wanted to understand why people thought, felt, and acted the way they did. Questions about identity, relationships, empathy, and connection became just as inspiring to me as the natural world.

Those ideas began finding their way into my artwork. While animals remained my primary subject, I started experimenting with pieces that explored emotion, symbolism, and the human figure. Looking back, this period marked the beginning of the artistic voice I continue to develop today.

Unfortunately, very little of that work still exists.

In 2020, I had spent nearly two years preparing for a major student exhibition that I hoped would serve as the culmination of everything I had learned throughout high school. When the COVID-19 pandemic forced the event to be canceled, I was devastated. It wasn't simply the loss of an art show—it felt like the loss of a milestone I had worked toward for years.

The pandemic quickly unraveled many of the routines and communities that had anchored me. School shifted online, church gatherings disappeared, and I lost my job in the food industry during the shutdown. Almost overnight, the support systems I had spent years building vanished, leaving me isolated within the same demanding home environment I had always known.

Without those outlets, my motivation disappeared.

Art, which had carried me through so many difficult seasons, suddenly became something I couldn't bring myself to do. I packed away sketchbooks, abandoned unfinished work, and eventually discarded nearly everything I had created during that period of my life. At the time, it felt easier to let it all go than to be reminded of opportunities that had disappeared before they ever had the chance to begin.

My grades suffered as schools struggled to adapt to unprecedented circumstances, and when I graduated, I did so without a clear vision for the future. College no longer felt like the right path, and I wasn't sure where my place was. More than anything, I simply wanted a fresh start.

At eighteen, I packed my belongings, placed Lacy in her carrier, and moved in with my aunt. It was the first major decision I made entirely for myself.

Looking back now, I don't see that season as the end of my artistic journey. It was simply the quietest chapter—a period of uncertainty that would eventually make rediscovering art feel all the more meaningful.

Leaving home did not immediately bring clarity, but it gave me the space to begin discovering who I was outside of my responsibilities.

Living with my aunt was my first taste of independence. Her family traveled frequently, and in exchange for a place to live, I became their dependable pet sitter. Around the same time, the COVID stimulus payments allowed me to purchase my first car. Learning to drive, finding steady employment, and contributing to household expenses while later living with my grandmother were small milestones, but each one helped me build confidence in my ability to create a life of my own.

Through every move, Lacy remained by my side. By then she was well into her teenage years, content as long as she had a warm place to sleep, a full food bowl, and the occasional bite of whatever I happened to be eating. She had adapted to every chapter of my life just as faithfully as I had.

Even so, something still felt incomplete.

By 2022, I had changed jobs, distanced myself from the church community I had grown up in, and watched many of my friends move into new stages of life through college and careers. I was proud of the independence I had built, but I also felt profoundly lonely.

Almost on a whim, I downloaded Tinder, hoping for little more than conversation.

The first person I chose to meet was Adam.

What began as a simple first date quickly became a relationship built on encouragement, curiosity, and genuine friendship. Adam's family welcomed me with kindness, and for the first time in years, I felt like I had found a community that expected nothing from me except that I be myself.

More importantly, Adam noticed something I had almost forgotten about myself.

After we had been dating for several months, he found a stack of my old sketchbooks and encouraged me to create a raccoon drawing as a Christmas gift for his mother. Around that same time, he suggested I make a memorial portrait for a friend whose beloved pet had unexpectedly passed away.

Those two drawings changed everything.

They reminded me that art had never really left me—it had simply been waiting for me to return.

Money was tight in those early years together, yet one Christmas Adam surprised me with a set of Prismacolor colored pencils. At the time, it was the most expensive art supply I had ever owned. To someone else, they may have seemed like a simple gift. To me, they represented belief. Someone else believed my art was worth investing in before I fully believed it myself.

Inspired by that encouragement, I created a colored-pencil portrait of Lacy and entered it into the Clark County Fair. I didn't receive an award, but simply submitting my work felt like a victory. For the first time since high school, I had allowed myself to be vulnerable enough to share my art publicly again.

At the close of the exhibition, one of the jurors approached me with an unexpected request. He asked whether my portrait was for sale. His wife had seen the drawing during the exhibition and had been brought to tears because Lacy looked remarkably like a cat they had recently lost.

Reluctantly, I agreed.

Watching that portrait leave with someone else was surprisingly emotional. Lacy had always been deeply personal to me, and parting with her likeness felt like letting go of something precious. Yet seeing how profoundly the artwork resonated with another family taught me an invaluable lesson.

Art could preserve memories—not only my own, but those of others.

That realization transformed the way I viewed my work. Creating portraits was no longer just an expression of my love for animals; it became a way to honor the relationships people share with them. Every commission carried a story, and every finished piece became something families could treasure long after their beloved companions were gone.

It was the first time I truly understood that the artwork I created for myself could also become a source of comfort for someone else.

After the Clark County Fair, opportunities began arriving one after another.

I was invited to display my work at a small pet supply store in Newberg, Oregon, where every piece I brought eventually found a home. After six months, the owner encouraged me to continue bringing more artwork, but by then I had begun pursuing opportunities closer to home. While I was still working full-time, I could see that my artistic career was beginning to grow in ways I had never imagined.

Life outside the studio was changing just as quickly.

In the fall of 2023, Adam and I were married. Looking back, it amazes me how quickly life unfolded after high school. The years that had once felt so uncertain gradually gave way to a future we were building together.

Shortly after returning from our honeymoon, I began working at Aurora Gallery. In the spring of 2024, I participated in my first gallery exhibition. During the opening reception, a visitor approached me with a simple question:

"Would you ever paint a pet portrait for me?"

That conversation became another turning point. What had started as occasional commissions quickly grew into something much larger. The work I loved creating most was also the work that resonated most deeply with others.

As Adam and I settled into married life, we moved once again, this time into a shared home with two of our closest friends. Together, we built a household filled with creativity, laughter, and, of course, animals. Alongside our own cat, we welcomed my family's aging dog into our home so she could receive the extra care she needed in her later years.

Then life shifted once again.

During the summer of 2024, I began experiencing a series of unexplained health issues. Months of appointments and testing yielded few answers. Most results came back "normal," despite the fact that I knew something wasn't right. Eventually, I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS) and Joint Hypermobility Syndrome (JHS), while continuing evaluation for disorders affecting my autonomic nervous system, including Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS).

While I was still searching for answers about my own health, I experienced another devastating loss.

On January 13, 2025, Lacy passed away at nineteen years old.

After suffering a series of strokes over the course of twenty-four hours, I knew it was time to say goodbye. It was the hardest decision I have ever made, but I couldn't bear to watch my best friend suffer. For nineteen years, I had devoted myself to caring for her, and in the end, that devotion meant making the choice she could not make for herself.

Lacy had spent her entire life beside me. Through every move, every hardship, and every new chapter, she had remained as devoted to me as I was to her. In those final hours, it felt as though she was still trying to stay with me. Loving her meant recognizing that holding on was no longer an act of kindness. The greatest gift I could give her was permission to rest.

A veterinarian came to our home so she could spend her final moments in the place she knew best. Surrounded by the people who loved us, wrapped in her favorite blanket, Lacy rested peacefully in my arms on our living room couch. As Paramore's Liar played softly in the background, our family and closest friends quietly shared in one final goodbye. Even now, hearing those first few notes is enough to bring me back to that moment.

It was a heartbreaking farewell, but it was also filled with profound love. After a lifetime of being my constant companion, I was grateful that I could give her the same comfort, safety, and peace she had given me for nearly two decades.

For nearly my entire life, she had been there. She had lived through every move, every school, every season of uncertainty, every sketchbook, and every version of myself I had become. Losing her felt like losing the last living connection to my childhood.

The grief was overwhelming.

For a time, it intensified everything else I was already carrying—physically, emotionally, and mentally. Yet as painful as it was, that grief eventually found its way back into my artwork, just as every significant experience in my life always had.

It became the foundation for a painting titled Inner Dialogue.

The piece explored far more than the loss of Lacy alone. It reflected the invisible conversations I was having with myself as I navigated grief, chronic illness, family struggles, and the determination to keep moving forward even when life felt impossibly heavy. It also marked the beginning of my ongoing "Animal and Female Figure" series, bringing together the two subjects that had shaped my artistic journey in entirely different ways.

As I painted, I began documenting the process on TikTok.

When Inner Dialogue was finished, it sold almost immediately for $1,500—the largest sale of my career and my first significant online success.

The sale itself was exciting, but what mattered more was what it represented.

For years, I had questioned whether my experiences, my perspective, and my artwork had value beyond my own life. Inner Dialogue answered that question. The painting proved that deeply personal stories can create deeply personal connections with complete strangers.

Not long afterward, Adam and I purchased our first home.

It is an older house with endless projects waiting to be completed, but to us it represents something far greater than square footage. After a childhood defined by constant moving, it is the first place that truly feels permanent. We share it with close friends who have become family, creating the kind of home built not only through walls and a roof, but through love, trust, and community.

As I began transforming the basement into my first dedicated studio, I came across the Emerging Artist Scholarship offered through ARTSTRA. I submitted my application with cautious optimism, then returned to painting, home renovations, and the steady work of building both my career and my life.

Receiving the news that I had been selected as the scholarship recipient was both humbling and deeply affirming.

The award allowed me to complete my studio by installing flooring, painting the space, and creating an environment where I could fully dedicate myself to my work. Just as meaningful was the opportunity to share my story through the accompanying interview and photo session, experiences that inspired me to host an Open Studios event of my own and become more actively involved in my local arts community.

Today, I continue balancing my work at the gallery with life as a wife, artist, daughter, sister, and friend. Every painting I create is shaped by the experiences that brought me here—the love of animals that first inspired me as a child, the responsibility that taught me resilience, the people who believed in me when I struggled to believe in myself, and the quiet companion who remained beside me through nearly every chapter of my life.

My goal is to become a full-time artist whose work not only celebrates animals but also honors the relationships we share with them. I hope to expand my pet portrait practice, continue developing my Animal and Female Figure series, and collaborate with local wildlife organizations, including big cat rescues, to use my work in support of conservation and education.

For most of my life, art has helped me hold onto the people, places, and moments I was afraid to lose. Today, it allows me to give those same memories back to others. Every piece I create is another reminder that love, connection, and home can outlast change—and that is the artist I hope to continue becoming.