When I was younger, I assumed there would come a point when I would feel as though I had figured things out.
Not everything, of course. But the important things.
I thought I would know exactly who I was. I thought I would understand what I wanted, where I belonged, what I was supposed to be doing, and how the pieces of my life fit together.
I also assumed that experience would eventually replace uncertainty.
It hasn’t.
And strangely, I’m beginning to think that’s a good thing.
There are still so many things I thought I’d know by now.
I thought I’d know exactly what kind of artist I am.
I’ve been painting professionally for many years, and you might think that by now I would have settled into a comfortable definition of what my work is supposed to look like.
Instead, I keep changing.
I become interested in different materials. My colours shift. I make something that surprises me and suddenly want to follow it somewhere. I get bored with things I once loved doing. I become curious about things I once dismissed—or was simply too nervous to try.
Sometimes I look at a new painting and wonder, “Where did that come from?”
I used to think this meant I hadn’t quite found my way yet.
Now I think it might mean that I have.
Maybe finding your way doesn’t mean arriving at one particular place. Maybe it means becoming comfortable enough to keep moving.
I thought I’d know what success feels like.
This one has surprised me.
From the outside, success can look very concrete. A painting sells. A gallery wants to represent you. Someone you’ve never met tells you that your work means something to them. An opportunity comes along that you once would have considered unimaginable.
Those things are wonderful, and I’m grateful for them.
But they don’t permanently erase doubt.
There isn’t a point where someone hands you a certificate saying, “There. You’ve done it. You may stop wondering now.”
At least, nobody has handed me one.
What I’ve learned instead is that success keeps changing its meaning.
Some days, success is selling a painting. Other days, it’s making something that feels completely different from anything I’ve made before. Sometimes it’s simply spending an afternoon in the studio and leaving with paint on my clothes and the feeling that I discovered something.
I thought I’d know how to make decisions without second-guessing myself.
I don’t.
I can make a decision with years of experience behind me and still wonder whether I’ve made the right one.
Should I add another colour?
Should I leave the painting alone?
Should I say yes to this opportunity?
Should I say no?
Should I keep going in this direction, or is it time to change?
Experience hasn’t stopped me from asking those questions. What it has given me is a little more trust in my ability to deal with whatever happens after I answer them.
That feels much more useful.
I thought I’d know what comes next.
Life has cured me of that idea.
Plans change. People change. Circumstances change. Things we counted on disappear, and things we never imagined suddenly become important.
The same is true in the studio.
I can begin a painting with a clear idea of where I’m going, only to have the painting pull me somewhere completely different.
I’ve learned that trying to control every outcome can sometimes prevent me from seeing what is actually happening in front of me.
So I’m trying to leave a little more room for the unexpected.
In painting, and in life.
I thought I’d know myself completely.
Perhaps this is the biggest one.
I thought that growing older would mean becoming a finished version of myself.
Instead, I keep meeting new versions.
There are things I’m willing to try now that I wouldn’t have attempted ten years ago. There are things that mattered enormously to me once that barely register anymore. There are places I feel drawn to, ideas I want to explore, and questions I’m asking that I couldn’t have anticipated.
I find that comforting.
Because if I don’t completely know the person I’m going to become, then there are still possibilities ahead of me that I can’t see yet.
Maybe knowing isn’t the point.
I used to think wisdom meant having answers.
Now I wonder if it has more to do with becoming comfortable with the questions.
There are things I understand much better than I did when I was younger. I know myself better. I trust my instincts more. I’m quicker to recognize what matters to me and a little less concerned about the things that don’t.
But certainty?
I’m not sure I want as much of it as I once thought I did.
Not knowing leaves room for curiosity.
It leaves room for surprise.
It leaves room to change your mind, try something new, make a terrible painting, make a wonderful painting, take a different road, begin again, and discover something about yourself that you didn’t know was there.
There are still plenty of things I thought I’d know by now.
Maybe I’ll figure some of them out.
And maybe, twenty years from now, I’ll still be asking questions.
I rather hope I am.