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Why Movement Belongs Here

Movement has never been separate from me. Long before I called myself an artist, I lived inside the discipline of the body. Training, competing, testing limits, and movement were my first language. It taught me strength, rhythm, resilience, and the sharp honesty that comes when the body refuses to lie.

That background shaped me. Even when painting became the main focus, the body was always there. It determined how I worked, how I endured long hours in the studio, how I recovered after carrying canvases bigger than myself. Movement and art weren’t in competition, they were in constant conversation.

The Collapse and the Long Return

Then came injury. A rupture, surgery, months of pain, and the humbling process of realising I couldn’t walk properly anymore. The language I’d always spoken fluently, the ability to move freely, without thinking, was suddenly gone.

Walking hurt. Stairs became mountains. My body felt like an unfamiliar weight I had to drag through each day. It’s a strange thing when the body you’ve relied on your whole life turns against you. I didn’t just lose strength, I lost trust in myself.

Recovery wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t glamorous. It was slow, frustrating, and often invisible. I had to relearn patience. To stop chasing what I could no longer do and instead meet my body where it was.

Smaller, Quieter Movements

It was movement that brought me back, but not the old kind. Not the heavy training, not the endless demand for more. What saved me were the smaller, quieter movements. Breath before effort. Awareness before ambition.

Pilates and yoga became less about performance and more about survival. They gave me a way to rebuild without force, to find stillness not just in my mind but in my body. The practices reminded me that strength is not always loud. Sometimes it’s the quiet repetition of showing up, even when the progress feels microscopic.

Stillness in Motion

That’s when I understood: stillness is not always about stopping. Stillness can live inside movement. It’s in the roll of a spine, the moment you pause before taking the next breath, the fragile balance that returns after being broken.

Movement doesn’t erase stillness. It deepens it. It gives it weight, texture, and presence.

The Garden Isn’t Split

This page exists because I don’t want to split my life into silos. My art, my writing, my movement, they all come from the same root. Painting anchors a space. Movement anchors me. Both are practices in the presence. Both demand patience. Both remind me of the beauty of imperfection and the strength that comes from paying attention.

So if you’re here, know this: movement isn’t an add-on. It’s not a new direction. It has always been part of the garden. I’m simply opening the gate to let you see it too.

What You’ll Find Here

You’ll find reflections on what Pilates and yoga have taught me, honest notes from recovery, and thoughts on how movement reshapes not only the body but the way we meet the rest of our lives. Nothing here is about quick results or polished perfection. It’s about resilience, healing, and the kind of strength that doesn’t perform; it simply holds.

The Thread That Ties It Together

Stillness is what ties it all together. In the studio, on the canvas, on the mat. And sometimes, stillness doesn’t mean staying still. Sometimes, stillness is the quiet you carry with you, even while moving.

This is only the beginning. Over time, I’ll share more about what Pilates and yoga have taught me, what recovery continues to demand, and how movement reshapes not only my body but also the way I create and live.

PS: If this speaks to you, there are a few ways to keep exploring: