This morning, I woke up remembering a film that had been locked away in my mind. I watched it again, and it opened doors to feelings I had kept hidden for years, feelings I hadn’t even realized. My cat and dog were in my lap, a calm and peaceful day around me, and I found myself transported back to my childhood. My feet in long Converse, listening to Barış Manço on the cassette player perched on the trunk of the plum tree, the treehouse my father built for me… That memory felt so distant, as if it had never happened.
Sometimes the attic, sometimes the treehouse, sometimes the gardens, the trees… The colorful, vibrant nature of my child’s mind, the endless stories I built and destroyed, and the painting dreams where I quietly expressed myself. Those dreams have guided me throughout my life, making me think in images, feel in colors. That freedom, the boundless space of childhood, still breathes quietly within me.

As I grew, I lost trust in the outside world. I was blamed for my lack of social skills, and in trying to improve, that blame became my inner voice; I constantly questioned myself, feeling alien and distant from the expectations around me. It distanced me from my own abilities. There were choices I made that I couldn’t undo, I lost precious things—but today, looking back, I can accept that even if I lived those days again, I would likely make similar choices. Most of it happened beyond my control, and only now can I make peace with that. With acceptance and self-forgiveness, the reactions my body used to have have started to ease.

For years, I saw my desire to create painting as a curse and suppressed it. Even if I hadn’t suppressed it, I had become unable to paint. Today, as I take a step back, I realize that the treehouse my father built for me—and the world of imagination it held—has been by my side, perhaps in ways I didn’t fully understand. For years, in anger and feeling unworthy and misunderstood, I drifted away from my painting dreams. Now, I have decided to open up to the people who will be by my side in my dreams, even if they are afraid of me or don’t fully understand me, and who are open to love me.

I understand the feelings Jess experienced that day when he didn’t invite Leslie to the museum, and the regret he felt. Even though I have faced my own experiences, I can now recognize the beauty of every precious thing I have lived, and I will keep reminding myself that I need to continue on my path in their memory. Today, even if I only make small experiments in the studio, I want to seek again the freedom I felt as a child, and enjoy painting without blaming myself—for that little girl in long Converse, like any little child who just wants to play with colors and shapes and enjoys it.