Hello, fellow art enthusiasts.
Today, I find myself writing a very different kind of blog post—one that’s deeply personal. I hesitated at first, unsure if I should share this part of my journey. But in the end, one simple question led me to say yes:
As artists, we often work in solitude—whether in a studio or another creative space. And yet, we seek connection, reaching out to share both our triumphs and our struggles. If we find strength in celebrating the good, isn’t it just as important to share the hardships?
For me, the answer was yes. Art is full of wonder, but it also comes with challenges. Writing about them feels like facing them head-on, and in that, I’ve found a sense of peace.
The Day Everything Changed
Three years ago, I was living my dream as a full-time artist. My days were spent creating—10 to 14 hours at a time—working with a wonderful gallery, teaching online classes, and making art that spoke to me. Then, in an instant, my world turned upside down.
I was diagnosed with Trigeminal Neuralgia and Persistent Postural-Perceptual Dizziness (PPPD), two conditions that completely upended my life. Chronic pain and relentless dizziness took over, leaving me disoriented, afraid, and uncertain of how to move forward.
Living with Trigeminal Neuralgia
Often called the “suicide disease,” Trigeminal Neuralgia is a rare condition that affects the trigeminal nerve, which carries sensations from the face to the brain. The pain is unlike anything I’ve ever known—sudden, electric shocks or searing agony that strike without warning. Sometimes, a constant, throbbing headache lingers in the background (Type 2 Trigeminal Neuralgia). Over-the-counter painkillers don’t touch it.
Simple everyday actions—brushing my teeth, speaking, feeling a cold breeze on my face, even wearing glasses—can trigger unbearable pain. At its worst, the intensity has literally knocked me to the ground in tears. The unpredictability of it is terrifying, like bracing for a storm that never truly passes.
The Unsteady World of PPPD
Around the same time, I developed Persistent Postural-Perceptual Dizziness (PPPD), a vestibular disorder affecting balance and perception. Following an episode of Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo (BPPV) and a viral infection that damaged my vestibular nerve, my entire sense of equilibrium collapsed.
It feels like standing on shifting ground or floating in constantly moving water—all the time. Vision becomes dull, enveloped in a thick fog, as if you're not truly present, accompanied by constant dizziness and imbalance. Busy environments exacerbate the condition, and even sitting offers no relief.
In the beginning, my brain struggled to process depth accurately, making the world appear flat. Colors faded to gray, sounds became overwhelming, and even the softest light felt like daggers in my eyes.
My ability to think clearly vanished, and my memory fragmented, making it impossible to form sentences; words, structure, and thought almost completely disappeared. Even the simplest tasks became impossible. I could barely care for myself. Panic attacks, which I had never experienced before, became a daily occurrence. Using computer screens, watching TV, reading, drawing, and writing became impossible—doing any of it made me too dizzy to function. My days became a terrifying cycle of sitting idly or walking slowly within confined spaces, unable to navigate the larger world. Every time I ventured beyond the safety of my house, fear overwhelmed me. The person I once was—the artist, the thinker, the multitasker—disappeared.
And with that, my lifeline—art—was suddenly out of reach.
Finding My Way Back
For over 10 months, I lived in this darkness, often grieving for the life I had lost. I was desperate, afraid, and unsure of how to move forward. But in the depths of that despair, I found three lifelines:
Art
Mindfulness
Support
Reclaiming Art, One Moment at a Time
About ten months in, I picked up a pencil again. At first, I could only draw for five or ten minutes before the dizziness became unbearable. It was slow, frustrating, and far from perfect. But it was something, I kept pushing myself, determined to get my art back.
Those brief moments reminded me that I was still here. That even in the chaos, I could still create. Five minutes turned into ten, then fifteen. Little by little, art became my way of reconnecting with the world—and with myself.
Finding Peace Through Mindfulness
Alongside art, I discovered mindfulness. At first, the idea of focusing on my breath or staying present felt impossible. How could I find stillness when my body and mind were in turmoil?
But step by step, I learned. When pain struck, I turned to breathing exercises, focusing on the rhythm of my inhale and exhale. It didn’t take the symptoms away, but it gave me moments of peace—small pockets of relief where I could remind myself that I wasn’t entirely powerless.
Mindfulness shifted my focus from what I couldn’t control to what I could: the present moment.
And when I combined mindfulness with art, the healing power of both became undeniable. Each pencil stroke, every layer of color, felt like a step forward. It wasn’t about perfection—it was about compassion. About proving to myself that even in my hardest moments, I was still worthy of time and care.
Where I Am Today
I still live with both conditions. Trigeminal Neuralgia still strikes without warning. I have help and know what is causing it. PPPD, now considered chronic, still makes the world feel unstable. I am constantly dizzy, it comes in waves but it fills my days. I still cannot drive in busy areas, my memory isn’t what it used to be, and brain fog still clouds my days. I fall constantly, often crashing into walls. If I close my eyes while moving, I lose all sense of direction.
But I’ve learned to adapt.
Mindfulness helps me stay grounded when the pain feels overwhelming. Art has brought back a sense of purpose and joy I thought was lost. I work in my studio more often now, but find myself exhausted by the simplest of tasks, distraction, disconnection, and fogginess still live here.
But my art and minfulness have helped me keep moving forward—even when the path seemed impossible.
This journey has also taught me the value of seeking help.
My vestibular physiotherapist, Bernard Tonks, helped me retrain my balance—one of the kindest and most gentle medical professionals I’ve ever met.
Mental health therapy gave me tools to navigate the fear and grief that once felt insurmountable. I am forever grateful for the kind and compassionate connections made there.
And my spouse—my unwavering source of love and patience—stood by me through my darkest days, reminding me that I didn’t have to face this alone.
Through them, I’ve learned to be proud of how far I’ve come. I’ve found connection, compassion, and even moments of peace and joy.
To Those Living with Chronic Illness
If you’re struggling—physically, emotionally, or both—I want you to know this: There is hope.
Even in the darkest moments, small actions can create light. As an artist, if you can pick up a pencil, a brush, a camera—whatever speaks to you, create without judgment, without expectation. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Whatever you can do offers the possibility of magic.
Living with Trigeminal Neuralgia and PPPD has taught me that healing isn’t about returning to who I was. It’s about finding a way forward—even when the path is unclear.
Creativity and mindfulness have shown me that it’s possible to exist in the present and rediscover the light within. It’s not about erasing the pain, but about learning to live alongside it—and creating something meaningful despite it.
Let your art remind you that beauty can emerge from struggle. That even the smallest steps forward can lead to something extraordinary.
I’d Love to Hear from You
What has helped you find light in difficult times? Have you used creativity, mindfulness, or another practice to navigate your challenges?
I’d love to hear your story in the comments.
With love,
J
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