At first glance, it's just a woodland path. Worn and quiet, softened by fallen leaves. It winds gently through tall trees, curving out of view where the light begins to shift. Nothing dramatic. Just the quiet hush of a forest holding its breath.
But if you've ever lost something-or someone-you love, you'll feel it.
This painting catches the ache of that moment.
When the familiar ends.
When the person you laugh hardest with is suddenly not just down the road anymore.
When the days ahead feel unsure, and the silence between now and what's next feels impossibly loud.
I didn't rush to fix it. Not making promises I can't keep.
Just simply painted the truth:
The path is still there.
We're not at the end.
We're just at the turn.
There's something sacred about that-the way the trail disappears behind the trees. You can't see where it leads, but the light through the branches says keep going. It doesn't have to be fast. It doesn't have to be brave. Just honest.
This is the moment when we realize we carry the friendship, the joy, the version of ourselves that bloomed in their presence-we carry it with us. Into the unknown. Into the stillness. Into whatever comes next.
And the forest whispers it gently, again and again:
We are not done having beautiful experiences. We don't need to play it safe or shut down.
There are still good things ahead.
Even here. Even now.
So take a breath. Stand still a while if you need to.
And when you're ready-step forward.
