The Story I Was Waiting to Tell Without Realizing It

Hi Friends,

I want to tell you a story, not just about my art, but about something deeper that happened behind the scenes. I think this story is worth telling. Perhaps it'll resonate with you the way it did with me.

Here's where it begins: I currently have work on exhibit at the West Orange Public Library in New Jersey.

I was supposed to have my art reception last Thursday, July 17. It should’ve been the easiest thing to share, or so I thought.

Just send out a quick email with the date, time, and a warm invite. But as the day got closer, something didn’t feel right.

Every time I sat down to write the newsletter, it didn’t feel like me. It felt hollow. I wasn’t excited about it, even though the exhibition meant something to me. Each draft I typed out? I hated it. I’d read it back and delete it. Again and again.

I couldn’t bring myself to write a basic, “The reception is happening on such-and-such date.” It just felt empty.

See, when I write, whether it’s a caption, a blog, or a newsletter. I always feel led to do it. There's usually something stirring in me that pushes the words out. But this time? That feeling never came.

So I didn’t force it. I waited. Something in me told me to wait.

And then, three days before the artist reception, I got a call.

It was the art director from the library. She told me there had been an incident at the library, a plumbing issue, and they had to close the building. That meant the reception would be postponed.

Funny enough, I didn’t feel disappointed. I felt a kind of calm. I thought to myself, Well, now I have time. Now I’ll know what to write. Something will come.

And something did come. But not right away.

But before I get to that, let me give you a little backstory.

I grew up in a Haitian household. And, like many first-generation kids, traditional career paths were strongly encouraged. Doctor, Lawyer, Nurse, you know the list.

So I went to school for nursing. I followed the path that was expected of me. I made it to my last semester before I realized I couldn’t do it anymore. It wasn’t me.

When I walked away from nursing school, my dad wasn’t pleased. He didn’t get it. From his perspective, I was walking away from a stable, respected career, something he probably dreamed I would have.

I didn’t even tell him about my art right away. In fact, I didn’t tell him until three years after I’d started painting. By that point, I had already been exhibiting my work in galleries and local institutions.

I remember the first time I showed him my work. He was surprised, really surprised. He stared at the paintings for a while and said, “I didn’t know you had this gift.” Then he started asking questions about how I made the pieces and what inspired me. I could tell he was interested, curious in a way I hadn’t expected. But even then, I didn’t think it was a big deal to him. At least, not yet.

I told him that I had just woken up one day during the pandemic and started painting. That’s literally how it happened; I had no formal training.

And he seemed... happy. He provided me with excellent feedback and encouragement.

But still, I didn’t tell him much after that.

I just kept creating, kept exhibiting, and doing my thing.

In my head, it wasn’t a big deal. I was just following my passion. Art had become the air I breathed. It wasn’t about proving anything to anyone. I didn’t need validation, I just needed to do it.

Even when I got my first museum exhibit, I didn’t invite him. Not because I didn’t want him there, but because in my head, it still didn’t feel like something huge. It was a big deal to me, because it was something I had prayed for... but for my parents, especially my dad, I didn’t think they’d feel the weight of it the same way.

So I kept going. Quietly. Consistently.

And then last week, something unexpected happened.

I opened Instagram and noticed a new follower: my dad.

Now, listen. My dad is not social media savvy. So when I saw that follow, I knew something was about to shift because I know my dad.

Two days later, I called him to say hi. And just like I thought, he brought it up.

He told me how he found me on Instagram and how surprised he was to see everything I’d been doing. He said he spent hours scrolling through my feed, looking at every post. He started describing images I had posted years ago, things I had forgotten about myself.

He told me how much he loved my work. How proud he is of me.

He said that he celebrated that day. That he’s not supposed to drink because of health issues, but he had a drink to celebrate what he saw. He admitted he had been holding off on calling me because he was still so excited, still riding the high of everything he saw. He said he couldn’t contain himself.

He told me that seeing my art and what I’ve built added a year to his life. I felt my whole body go still for a second.

He said he’s proud of all three of his daughters.

He said, “Now I understand why you didn’t want to be a nurse. I get it now.”

I can hardly put into words how that conversation made me feel.

I was happy. I was proud of myself. I was full.

I remembered being in the hospital with my dad last year, watching him lie in that bed, hooked up to tubes, looking so fragile. My prayer to God was, “Please let my dad live. I want him to see what I will accomplish with my art. I want him to be proud of me.”

And in my mind, that meant sometime way down the line, when I had made a name for myself, when I was known, when the world had validated my work.

I didn’t expect that moment to come now.

But it did.

He is proud of me now.

He told me, in his own words, again and again. The joy he shared with me was priceless.

And I realized something powerful.

We often think we need to arrive at some big destination, get the awards, reach a certain number of followers, and land a big-name exhibit, before the people around us will be proud. We think pride is tied to results.

But sometimes, all it takes is being honest with your life and doing the thing that makes you come alive.

That phone call gave me the biggest boost of encouragement I’ve had in a long time.

After we hung up, I ran to my husband and told him everything. He was just as happy.

I spent the rest of that day meditating on the conversation, letting it ground me and shape me.

It felt so good.

And suddenly, I knew I had to write this story.

I realized that the reason I felt so stuck and uninspired to write a newsletter before was because this was the story I was meant to tell all along.

And as if all that wasn’t enough, good things started happening.

Yesterday, one of my paintings was featured on Substack Reads, and it brought so many beautiful souls to my page.

So if you're reading this now, whether you’ve supported my work for years or just found me yesterday, thank you.

Thank you for being here.

Thank you for allowing me to share more than just my art, but the life that flows behind it.

And if you’re out there doing something that feels meaningful to you, even if it doesn’t make sense to others yet, keep going.

Keep planting seeds.

You never know which one is going to bloom next.

With all my heart,
Cassandra

You can view available works from the Renewal collection, currently exhibited at the West Orange Public Library, through the link below:

View the collection

The exhibition runs until August 22, with an artist reception scheduled for Thursday, August 7, at 6:00 PM.

Location:
West Orange Public Library
10 Rooney Circle
West Orange, NJ 07052

Hope to see you there.