YOU REALLY DO BECOME WHAT YOU THINK

Recently, I’ve been reflecting on the incredible power of our minds. Every thought we entertain, every belief we hold onto, quietly shapes the way we see ourselves and the world around us. It’s easy to underestimate the impact of our inner dialogue on our peace, confidence, and sense of purpose. Yet the truth remains: you really do become what you think.

If your mind is filled with clutter, negativity, and self-doubt, it becomes almost impossible to live with joy. I’ve experienced seasons where I let my thoughts spiral into worry, comparison, or fear, and soon enough, I felt drained and disconnected. But when I intentionally fill my mind with gratitude, hope, and truth, everything begins to shift. My energy feels lighter, my focus becomes clearer, and I start to see life through a lens of possibility rather than limitation. The state of our minds determines the state of our lives.

Emotions are not problems that need fixing; they are signals that invite us to listen. Fear often points to what truly matters. Anger reveals where our boundaries have been crossed. Anxiety usually means we’ve wandered too far into the future, and it gently calls us to return to the present. I’ve learned to see emotions as teachers rather than enemies. They don’t define us, but they help us understand where we are and what needs healing.

Many people chase motivation, hoping it will change their lives. But motivation is fleeting, it fades the moment things get hard. What truly transforms us are our habits. The small, consistent actions we take each day hold more power than bursts of inspiration. When we build habits rooted in purpose, like spending time in stillness, choosing kindness, or showing up for ourselves even when it’s hard, everything begins to shift. Little by little, our habits shape our character, and our character shapes our destiny.

Our past, too, has a way of trying to hold us captive. But the past is only a chapter, not the entire story. I remind myself to learn from it, to take the lessons it offers, but not to keep living there. Living in the past steals the beauty of the present moment. We can’t rewrite what has already happened, but we can choose how to move forward and what we carry with us.

As a creative, I’ve learned that this truth extends into the work we put out into the world. It takes faith to believe in your talent when no one seems to notice, and courage to share your art even when you doubt if it’s good enough. There are times when the results don’t come right away, and yet that’s where quiet trust is built. Every sketch, photo, painting, design, or idea is a seed. It may not bloom immediately, but with consistency and belief, it eventually finds its place. Faith in your creative purpose means releasing control over the outcome and trusting that the work you create with sincerity will reach who it’s meant to reach, in its own time.

Interestingly, this week’s Gospel reading from Luke 17:1–10 spoke about faith, the kind that starts as small as a mustard seed and moves mountains. Whether you’re a person of faith or not, the message holds true for everyone. It reminds us that transformation doesn’t come from massive leaps but from small, steady steps in the right direction, like the mustard seed, which begins tiny yet grows into a great tree over time. Just as with faith, the smallest change in thought or attitude can grow into something powerful when nurtured daily. Besides, we know that faith without action is dead.

In the same way, when someone triggers us, it’s rarely about them. It’s often a reflection of something within us that still needs attention. I’ve learned to pause in those moments and ask, “What is this trying to show me?” That pause creates space for growth. It reminds me that healing is an ongoing process and that grace must start with ourselves.

We spend so much time trying to control everything, yet control is an illusion. The only real power we have lies in our responses, in our habits, and in our choices. That’s where freedom begins.

At the end of the day, everything circles back to this truth: your thoughts shape you, your habits build you, and your choices define you. When we nurture our minds with positive, grounded thoughts, cultivate habits that align with who we’re becoming, and make intentional choices each day, we begin to step into a life of peace, purpose, and quiet faith.

Even the smallest seed of belief in yourself, in hope, in God, or in the goodness of life, is enough to grow into something extraordinary.

COMPARISON, PEACE, AND THE LONG GAME

 

There’s a quote I often come back to: “Comparison is the thief of joy.” It’s one of those truths that creeps into our lives quietly, stealing contentment before we even realize it’s gone.

We live in a world where it’s impossible not to notice what other people are doing. Every scroll through social media reminds us of someone else’s highlight reel: an award won, a new house purchased, a vacation by the beach, or even just a beautifully edited photo. At first, it looks harmless, even inspiring. But over time, comparison takes root. What was once admiration becomes dissatisfaction. What was once a celebration becomes self-doubt.

Instead of enjoying what we already have, we convince ourselves it isn’t enough. We start chasing what looks shiny, desperately trying to keep up with the Joneses. But here’s the truth: the Joneses don’t even exist. They’re an illusion, a carefully curated story. Chasing them is a race without a finish line.

And this isn’t just about wealth or lifestyle; it runs deep, especially for creatives.

The Artist’s Struggle with Comparison

Being an artist, I know this reality all too well. You put your heart into your work. You spend hours sketching, painting, designing, or creating something you believe has meaning. Then you post it. You wait. A few likes trickle in. Maybe one or two comments if you’re lucky.

And then you scroll.

That’s when you see another artist’s work; sharper, brighter, seemingly more profound. Their posts get hundreds, sometimes thousands of reactions. They’re being recognized, celebrated, and even commissioned. Meanwhile, you start asking yourself: Why not me? Is my work even worth it? Am I really good enough?

The harsh truth is, art is not a meritocracy. The best work doesn’t always get the spotlight. Sometimes it’s luck, timing, or simply the right person sharing it with the right audience. Watching others “make it” while your work goes unnoticed can feel crushing. It’s a weight that makes you question not only your talent but also your purpose.

And yet, here’s the secret: the only way through is persistence

Short-Term Praise vs. Long-Term Peace

Chasing recognition feels good in the moment, it’s that rush of short-term praise. But it fades quickly. The likes stop. The applause dies down. And then what? If your value rests only on that fleeting attention, you’ll constantly feel empty.

The real secret to true wealth is not applause, not fame, not even sales. It’s peace. It’s the quiet knowing that your work matters, even if the world doesn’t recognize it immediately. It’s creating because you love the process, because your art heals you, challenges you, or allows you to speak when words fail. That kind of wealth lasts.

The Persuasiveness of Pessimism

Another thing I’ve noticed is how different optimism and pessimism sound to our ears. Pessimism is always more persuasive. Someone says, “That’ll never work” or “It’s too risky,” and immediately, we believe them. It sounds wise, almost protective.

Optimism, on the other hand, often sounds like a sales pitch. “Keep going, it will pay off one day” feels vague, naïve, and sometimes even delusional. But the truth is, pessimism lives in the short term. It tells you what can’t happen tomorrow. Optimism, however, lives in the long term. It doesn’t promise days. It promises decades.

Think about it: every artist who’s ever been remembered wasn’t validated in a week. Some weren’t even celebrated in their lifetime. But the impact of their work grew over the years, decades, even centuries. Optimism is the quiet belief that if you keep showing up, your work will find its place.

And when I reflect on this, I’m reminded of God’s timing. “For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). This speaks directly into my word of the year, Providence. It’s the assurance that God’s timing is never rushed, never delayed, but perfectly aligned with His purpose for us.

Playing the Long Game

So where does this leave us? It leaves us with a choice.

We can choose comparison, short-term praise, and pessimism, and live in cycles of frustration and burnout. Or we can choose peace, the long game, and the kind of optimism that sustains us through dry seasons.

Choosing peace doesn’t mean settling. It means refusing to let external validation dictate your worth. Choosing optimism doesn’t mean ignoring the struggle. It means accepting that the best things, whether success, recognition, or mastery, take time.

And playing the long game means trusting that what you create today may not be appreciated tomorrow, but it still matters. It’s still planting seeds, and eventually, seeds grow. As Paul reminds us, “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” (Galatians 6:9). That’s the promise of long-term gain; the harvest comes, but only after patience, consistency, and faith.

Final Thoughts

Comparison will always be there, whispering in the background. Recognition may come slower than we hoped. And pessimism will often feel more convincing than optimism.

But in the end, joy is found in persistence. Wealth is found in peace. And greatness is found in the long game.

So to every artist, creator, or dreamer wondering if their work is worth it… Yes, it is. Even if it doesn’t look like it today. Especially if it doesn’t look like it today, because your art isn’t just for applause; it’s part of the story you’re building.

And stories, like masterpieces, are best told over time.

 

GOD KNOWS AND THAT’S ENOUGH!

 

Lately, I’ve been realizing something about how God works in our lives: He gives us just enough. Not too much that we get comfortable and forget Him, and not so little that we’re completely hopeless and abandoned. Just enough to keep us leaning on Him, remembering that we can’t do it all on our own. And you know what? God knows, and that’s enough. I actually have those exact words written on my manifesto hanging on my wall, and the older I get, the more I see the truth in them.

That phrase became real to me in a very personal way. For a long time, I had this bad habit of overexplaining myself, always trying to defend who I was or prove my truth, especially when people thought I was lying or chose not to believe me. It used to drain me, because no matter how much I explained, some people had already made up their minds. Then I started telling myself, “God knows, and that’s enough.” Whether people chose to believe me or not, it didn’t matter anymore. I know my truth, and more importantly, God knows my truth. And with that, I’ve found peace.

When I look back, I notice how life always seems to present a new challenge right after a victory. You think you’ve overcome one mountain, only to find another waiting ahead. At first, it feels unfair, like, why can’t I just breathe for a while? But then it hits me: if I had everything handed to me with no struggle, no waiting, no uncertainty, I’d probably stop praying. I’d stop asking. I’d stop depending. And I know I’m not alone in that.

The Bible tells us that God is a “jealous God” (Exodus 34:14). He wants our attention, our love, our dependency. Not because He’s insecure, but because He knows that when we turn away from Him, we turn toward destruction. So sometimes that “just enough” is His way of keeping our hearts close, teaching us to trust Him with tomorrow instead of drowning in the false security of today.

It reminds me of the Israelites in the wilderness. God provided manna for them daily, but notice how it was only enough for that day. If they tried to store it up, it spoiled (Exodus 16:19–20). Why? Because God wanted them to depend on Him every single day. And honestly, isn’t that still the story of our lives? We worry so much about where our next meal will come from, how the bills will be paid, or who will provide for us. Yet Jesus reminds us in Matthew 6:26 that if God takes care of the birds of the air and feeds them, how much more will He take care of us? If He can provide for the birds and the bees, then who am I to doubt His provision? He reminds us daily that His mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22–23).

And here’s something else I’ve come to realize: deep down, when you stop and think about some of the things you once prayed for, you’ll see that you’re already living in an answered prayer. God gave you what you wanted, but because we are constantly asking for the next thing, we often forget that we’re blessed according to His timing and His understanding of what we needed in that season. That’s why we must strongly believe that everything happens for a reason, and always in God’s perfect timing (Ecclesiastes 3:1). At the end of the day, we can rest in this truth: God knows, and that’s enough.

Now, let me go back to a conversation I had with my brother that really made me think. He said, and I quote, “Blessings come with a curse.” At first, that sounded heavy, almost negative. But as he explained further, it began to make sense. A blessing, by nature, is good, but it also comes with responsibilities, sacrifices, and challenges that can feel like a curse if we’re not prepared for them. You pray for a better job, and along with it comes longer hours and more stress. You pray for influence, and along with it comes criticism and pressure. You pray for love, and with it comes sacrifice and responsibility.

It’s not that the blessing itself is bad, it’s that every blessing stretches us. And stretching can sometimes feel like breaking. That’s why Luke 12:48 is so true: “To whom much is given, much will be required.” What my brother meant is that we have to recognize this balance and learn to choose contentment. We can’t just expect the good without the weight it carries. So the key is being happy with what we have, trusting God’s wisdom, and knowing that even when blessings feel heavy, they are still gifts from Him.

That’s why it’s so important not to lose yourself in the middle of the sacrifices you make. Society loves to glorify sacrifice, calling it noble, and yes, there’s honor in serving others. But if in the process you neglect yourself, your health, your soul, what good is that? Even Jesus, who gave everything, still took time to rest, to pray, to withdraw from the crowds (Luke 5:16). He showed us that self-care isn’t selfish; it’s necessary to keep going.

So here’s where I’ve landed: God gives us just enough because He knows us better than we know ourselves. Just enough to remind us to pray. Just enough to keep us grateful. Just enough to stretch us without breaking us. Just enough to make us realize that He is the source, not us.

And when the blessings feel heavy, or when the sacrifices feel like too much, maybe that’s the moment to pause and take care of yourself. To sit with God, to rest in His presence, and to remember that He is still good, even when the “just enough” doesn’t look like what we wanted.

Because the truth is, God’s “enough” has always been enough. As Philippians 4:19 says, “And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.” Not all your wants. Not all your plans. But your needs, your real needs, and that’s more than enough.

 

LOVE, PASSION, AND THE SILENCE BETWEEN

Love is supposed to be gentle and kind, but is it really? It does not come with instructions or a filter that makes it easier to swallow. Love exposes us, lays us bare, and often shames us mercilessly. We can pretend to control it, to manage it, to dress it up with sweet words and forced smiles, but the truth is harder to hide. Love lives in our thoughts. It presses against the walls of our hearts, demanding to be felt, even when we fight against it. And the more we resist, the louder it seems to echo inside us.

We often convince ourselves that moving on is simple. We tell ourselves time heals, that new beginnings erase old endings, and that we are strong enough to outgrow what once consumed us. But is this true, or is it only what we tell ourselves so we can keep functioning? Moving on sometimes feels less like healing and more like survival. We pile our emotions one on top of the other, hoping fresh experiences will bury the past. A new friendship, a new love, a new routine. Yet the silence always catches us. In the quiet, memories resurface. They linger like shadows, shimmering at the edges of thought, reminding us of what we have tried so hard to forget.

Maybe the truth is that we never fully move on. Maybe love is not meant to leave us. It leaves scars, deep and invisible, but always present. Scars that whisper of who we were when we gave ourselves away, when we dared to feel. We may call it hate, or we may call it indifference, but often these are only masks we wear to cover the ache. Hate is not the opposite of love. Sometimes it is just love’s residue, hardened and twisted, but still tethered to what once was.

This truth does not only belong to the realm of romance. It finds its way into the passions we pursue in life, art, work, dreams, and the things that once set our souls on fire. We begin with conviction, convinced we have found our calling, and we dive in wholeheartedly. But over time, the flame changes. What once felt like joy begins to feel heavy. The love we had for a craft, a dream, or even a career can shift into fatigue or even bitterness. And we wonder, was it ever love at all? Or was it a desire dressed as passion, destined to fade once lived in reality?

Perhaps love and passion share this one cruel truth: they are rarely permanent. They evolve, they transform, and sometimes they fade. When passion withers, we often resent it. It feels like a betrayal, as though we were abandoned by something we once trusted. Just like with lost love, we may disguise that grief as hate. It is easier to call it bitterness than to admit we still care. It is easier to shut the door than to admit part of us still longs for the fire.

But maybe that lingering ache is not a curse. Maybe it is a reminder that we once lived with depth, that we once cared enough to give ourselves fully. Whether it is for a person, an art form, a career, or a dream, the scar that love and passion leave is proof of life. Proof that we were not numb, that we were willing to risk heartbreak in the hope of joy.

So how do we live with this? Perhaps the point is not to escape the wound or silence the echo. Perhaps the point is to accept that love and passion will always carry weight. They are not meant to be tidy or easy. They are meant to move us, to shape us, to scar us. And in those scars lie the stories of our memories.

Love and passion are blessings and burdens, flames of fire turned to ashes. They do not always stay, but they always leave their mark. And in the silence between what was and what is, we learn to carry both the beauty and the ache. We learn that the scar itself is a kind of love, not for what we lost, but for the proof that we once dared to feel.

 

EVERYTHING HAS AN EXPIRATION DATE

 

We live in a world that often glorifies permanence. We’re told to invest in things that last “forever,” to build relationships that will stand the test of time, and to create work that will outlive us. And so, many of us, myself included, grow up with the belief that once something is ours, it will always remain. But life has a way of reminding us otherwise.

It’s in the moments when something breaks, when systems fail, or when change knocks unexpectedly at our door that we’re forced to face a humbling truth: nothing is truly permanent.

I once had a conversation with my dentist that changed the way I look at life. My crown had broken, and I was upset about it. I remember asking him why it broke and what use it was to me if it couldn’t last a lifetime. His answer was simple, yet so profound that it has stayed with me ever since: “Everything has a lifespan. Nothing on this earth is permanent. Even we as humans eventually die.”

Those words struck me. In that moment, I realized how often I hold on to the illusion of permanence, expecting things to last forever. But the truth is, everything has an expiration date, whether it’s objects, systems, relationships, or even habits.

The Illusion of Permanence

We live in a world where marketing sells us the dream of “forever.” A phone that will serve us endlessly. A website that will run smoothly once it’s built. A crown that should stay in place for life. Yet reality is different. Everything requires maintenance, repair, or eventual replacement.

Take my website, for example. When it recently experienced downtime, I was frustrated. My first thought was: “Why isn’t this permanent? Didn’t I already put in the work?” I had subconsciously assumed that once I created it, it would remain stable without further effort. But websites, just like people, need check-ups, updates, and care.

My frustration revealed something deeper: I struggle with the idea that things I build or invest in won’t last forever. I want them to, but they don’t, and that dissonance unsettles me.

The Price of Value

This also occurs when I purchase expensive electronics. The moment something breaks, I feel cheated: “Why spend so much money on something that won’t last?”

But that’s the reality, we aren’t paying for eternity. We’re paying for value within a time span. Even the most durable products eventually wear out. And perhaps that’s the point: value isn’t measured by how long something lasts, but by how much use and meaning it provides while it lasts.

Patterns of Attachment

I’ve realized this mindset of permanence affects not only my possessions but also my habits, my work, and even my relationships. Somewhere deep down, I’ve always believed that once something is mine, it will always be mine.

That’s why letting go has always been difficult for me. Whether it’s a broken phone, a failed project, or even a piece of art I don’t like, my instinct is to hold on, to finish, to see it through. If I start a painting and dislike it halfway, I can’t just abandon it. I’ll push through until the end, even if I remain unsatisfied with the result.

At first glance, that may look like discipline and consistency. And in some ways, it is. This is why I always see things through to the end. It’s why people often describe me as reliable, consistent and loyal. Those are strengths.

But there’s also a downside. The same consistency that keeps me finishing projects also keeps me stuck in patterns, a loop, even when those patterns don’t serve me. I remain consistent in failure as much as in success. I cling tightly to things long after their expiration date, sometimes out of loyalty, sometimes out of habit, sometimes out of fear.

The Double-Edged Sword of Consistency

Consistency is both my superpower and my struggle.

On the one hand, it has taught me perseverance. It has allowed me to complete works of art, to finish difficult projects, to maintain routines when motivation falters. It is the quiet force that ensures progress.

On the other hand, it can chain me to things I should release. A project that no longer excites me. A routine that no longer nurtures me. A relationship that no longer serves me. By insisting on finishing everything, I sometimes forget that not everything deserves to be finished. Some things are meant to be paused, reimagined, or simply let go.

Learning to Embrace Expiration

This lesson about impermanence is still unfolding in my life. I am learning that expiration dates are not failures. They are reminders that life is dynamic. Just as seasons change, so too do the things we create, use, and experience.

Permanence was never the promise. Presence is.

The crown that broke served me for years. The website downtime taught me to be attentive and adaptive. The phone that eventually failed gave me countless moments of connection and creativity. Even the artwork I dislike teaches me something new about my craft, an opinion formed at a glance, but still shaped by the act of creation.

And maybe the deeper truth is this: expiration dates force us to keep moving. They prevent us from clinging forever to the old, and they make space for the new.

A Gentle Shift

So instead of resenting impermanence, I’m trying to embrace it. To see the lifespan of things as part of their beauty. To remind myself that endings are not betrayals but natural transitions.

Everything has an expiration date, but that doesn’t diminish its worth. It only means we must be present while it lasts, grateful for the value it gives, and willing to let go when its time is done.

Because in the end, maybe the point isn’t for things to last forever. Maybe the point is to let them shape us while they last.

MY MIND IS A CONSTANT LOOP

 

There’s a coldness that surrounds me constantly. I can’t quite explain it. Only that it lingers, quietly wrapping itself around my thoughts, consuming any warmth I try to hold onto. It drains me of energy, strips me of drive, and slowly pulls at the threads of my ambition. It’s like a fog, subtle, but persistent. Dimming the light inside me and shuttering the dreams I once held so vividly. Every spark of hope seems to flicker out before it can become a flame, and I'm left wondering what happened to all the things I was once so sure of.

There’s this looming sense of disappointment that trails me. Not necessarily about where I am, but about where I think I should be. It’s like a shadow that whispers, "You could have done more. You could have been more." And maybe it's right. Or maybe it's just the echo of comparison and unmet expectations. Either way, it feeds on my courage, chipping away at the resilience I try so hard to preserve. It keeps reminding me to be discontented as though I haven’t been blessed, as though I don’t already have so much to be grateful for.

But I do. I know I do.

Still, that doesn't quiet the noise.

There’s also a shadow from my past that clings to me. It shows up uninvited, replaying past accomplishments that I once brushed off, things I didn’t celebrate, because I didn’t think they were enough. And yet, now, those same moments seem precious. They remind me that I’ve done good things, even if I didn’t give myself the grace to acknowledge them back then. Somehow, I’ve tethered myself to these echoes, unable to surrender the past, yet unsure how to carry it forward with peace.

Then comes the fear of the future. It creeps in quietly, disguising itself as preparation or caution. I imagine the worst-case scenarios, running through them as if I’m rehearsing for disaster. Still, somehow, I remain hopeful, hopeful that better days are ahead. It’s a strange kind of duality, living between anxiety and expectation. The present feels like a blur, like I’m neither here nor there. As though my efforts today don’t quite measure up, or aren’t even being seen. There’s a disconnection from the now, like I’m always either looking back with regret or forward with fear.

I find myself questioning what I’m meant to celebrate. The things I once held proudly seem to have slipped from my hands. And yet, I still reflect, search for meaning, trying to believe that the future is not yet written. That the choices I make now still have weight. Still have the power to shape something good.

And yet, none of it seems to make sense. It’s a cycle, a loop that wraps itself around my thoughts, tightening and loosening without warning. A tug-of-war with reality, where my mind crafts scenarios both real and imagined. They dance endlessly in my head, teasing my peace, shaking my calm. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the one destabilizing myself, or if life just comes with this kind of inner noise. I tell myself I have control and, in some ways, I do. But in others, I feel like a passenger just trying to hold on.

Still, deep down, I know something important: I get to decide. I get to decide what I focus on. What I feed. What I let grow. And what I let go of.

Life is a wonder. Sometimes frustratingly so. I find myself rereading the things I write, observing the patterns that consume my mind. And I realize that, after all is said and done, I’m still me. The core of who I am hasn't changed. Only time has passed. The visions, the worries, and the uncertainties remain the same. Maybe they always will. Maybe that's just part of being human.

It's just another day in the loop. Another attempt to make sense of it all. Another journal entry, another deep breath, another quiet reminder that I’m still here, still standing, still feeling, still hoping. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.

Hopefully, one day, it will all make sense.

 

THE SHIFT OF THE DIGITAL AGE

When the Machine Creates, Is There Still Room for the Human Touch?

I feel as though I keep having to relearn a new skill just to stay ahead, to keep up with the times, because if I don’t, I’ll be left behind. It wasn’t too long ago that knowing Photoshop was a big deal. I remember growing up and just learning how to use a computer, having to get used to typing because writing by hand was all I knew. I didn’t even have a cellphone at one point, before high school, because it didn’t exist at an affordable price, and back then, the internet wasn’t even a thing, at least not accessible from the comfort of my home.

But life comes at you fast.

The internet arrived, and cyber cafés became the place to be. I remember paying to access the internet, a luxury not many could afford to have at home. Then came owning a cellphone, and eventually laptops. Technology started placing access to information right at the palm of our hands. Libraries started to dwindle. Dictionaries were no longer a necessity.

Now, when I try to hold a pencil and paper, I realize I’ve become so accustomed to typing that I’ve almost forgotten my own beautiful handwriting.

As a graphic designer, my work feels constantly under threat. Ironically, I taught myself much of what I know through the same internet that now makes things too easy. YouTube, tutorials, free resources, they were my teachers. I learned Illustrator the same way. But now, with websites like Canva simplifying the process for everyone, our years of training and creative muscle often feel like a joke.

Still, I jump on the trends. Because the truth is, if life can be made easier, why not embrace it, right?

As a photographer, I used to take pride in the weight of my DSLR camera, its lenses, its gear, the time it took to compose and edit a shot. But today, everyone carries a high-definition camera in their pockets. What even is the value of a DSLR anymore? What even is the purpose of our jobs when almost anyone can take a decent photo on their phone?

Then came AI, and the threats accelerated. Now, a design or an image can be created instantly with just a prompt. Work that once took hours of thinking, planning, and crafting can be generated in seconds.

Where does that leave us?

My traditional paintings, especially my acrylic work, are now mimicked by digital brushes and layering techniques. What once required mastery of color mixing and brush control is now replicated with a tap and a drag. Traditional artists resisted this shift, often dismissing digital artists as “fake.” But they hadn’t seen the coming of AI, something that would challenge their value even more.

In my case, I’ve never been confident drawing human portraits. Digital tools allowed me to work around this by cartoonizing or drawing over images, something traditional media never gave me room to do. I took advantage of it, but then I started worrying about copyright. I wasn’t sure where the lines were drawn, no pun intended. AI then became a kind of blessing, offering references I could use legally, though even that is still a grey area.

So here we are today, facing AI’s rapid rise, watching our work being consumed literally at the touch of a button. Just press “Enter” after typing a command.

But if you think about it, can we even call it art?

We now compete with machines, hoping to be chosen in a world that’s slowly losing its appreciation for the human form and the human touch. Even my writing has been affected. As a creative writer, I’ve become more productive because AI has helped me put my thoughts into words I never thought possible. I can fine-tune my work quickly. I no longer need an editor because grammar checks and flow suggestions are done instantly. But in that efficiency, someone else’s job, someone’s years of experience, becomes less necessary.

All these shifts in such a short time during my lifetime make me wonder what past generations were doing. How has so much changed so quickly? And more importantly, what is to come?

What happens to our creative exploration?
Are we doomed to rely entirely on machines?
Or is our work still relevant?

Maybe the question isn’t about fighting the tools but learning how to use them wisely. Maybe the key is in finding balance, not replacing the human touch, but amplifying it.