Dreaming in Two Dimensions: The Intersection of Safety, Art, and Personal Growth

Hola and hey there!

One of my neighbors is married to a Chinese American. Her husband lives and works in the States. Their children recently went to live with him while she stayed behind to settle their family and business affairs before joining them. But things didn’t go as planned. Her visa application has been stalled for months. She misses her family. While they are busy remaking their lives in the States, she’s here alone, rebuilding hers. Despite her loss, she continues to care for the triangle-shaped park between our two streets. She makes sure the sprinklers are replaced, collects funds for playground equipment, and travels to care for her aging parents, only to suffer abuse from extended family members who disagree with her decisions regarding their care. She carries a lot.

On the other side of that neighbor is another woman, also living alone. She lost her mother around the same time I lost my husband. A few months ago, she lost her husband, too. And yet, she just opened a car wash, stepping into a new life, daring to dream beyond the boundaries of her grief.

Both women are rebuilding. Both have chosen action over retreat.

Their ways of coping are so different from mine. I admire their resilience, their ability to dream despite heartbreak.

But admiration doesn’t erase pain.

I know that firsthand.

I, too, believed that helping others would bring meaning back into my life. I tried. But I was taken advantage of. Some people prey on the vulnerable, and when that happens, the victim is often blamed for “allowing” the abuse. That painful lesson pushed me inward. I had to create a safe space for myself, a place where I could be vulnerable without fear. My refuge became art.

Art, like safety, has both external and internal dimensions.

Externally, I need a physical space where I am protected, where I can create without fear. Internally, I need to trust myself—to recognize my emotions, set boundaries, and allow my work to flow without overthinking. When I’m out of touch with my own feelings, I overthink both my art-making process and the way I comprehend the world. That disconnection makes everything feel heavier, less clear. It’s like my emotions are blocked, and my art stalls. But when I create from a place of awareness, I reclaim both my space and my sense of self.

Art is about creating a space where I feel safe, but it’s also about stepping beyond that space and embracing risk. Safety allows me to be vulnerable without fear of exploitation, to trust myself and my emotions. Risk in art, however, is different because it’s about pushing past comfort, challenging myself, and embracing uncertainty. When I feel safe, I have the freedom to take creative risks. I can experiment, make mistakes, and let the process guide me somewhere unexpected.

Risk, when chosen consciously, becomes a tool for growth. It’s not about recklessness but about meeting the unknown with curiosity and courage.

Since last November, around the time my neighbor’s visa was put on hold, I chose gratitude as the new focus of my art-making. But gratitude, as a theme, was too big, too vague. Worse, it smacked of toxic positivity. My few attempts failed to express my dream of painting expressively, where subjectivity takes precedence. I spent weeks on a single painting, unable to move forward—my usual sign that I was out of touch with my emotional well-being, too attached to comfort. Overthinking and wishing for predictable outcomes in art don’t allow for growth. I had to break that cycle.

To reconnect with my emotions, I recently started making quick, ten-minute sketches in small notepads—raw, unfinished, often ugly.

But they were magical in their honesty.

I wrote down what I liked about these attempts at free-flowing mark-making, gathered images and quotes from artists who inspire me, and let these pieces guide me back to myself.

I also started a mind-mapping exercise on a large sheet of vellum. It was centered on gratitude. But as I dug deeper, I realized my true north wasn’t gratitude. Instead, it was the dream of feeling safe, of having a place I truly call home. But is home a physical place? A person? A state of mind? Is it me?

Security is not just about walls and locks. It’s also internal. Safety starts with self-awareness. If I don’t understand my own feelings, I can’t recognize danger or protect myself from those who would take advantage of me. Knowing what feels right—and what doesn’t—is its own kind of security.

My dream is to be physically safe, to say no more often, and to feel at home within myself.

But safety isn’t the end goal. It’s the foundation that aligns with my values. From that foundation, I can take meaningful risks, ones that push me beyond comfort in ways that matter. In art, a meaningful risk means embracing uncertainty, which entails experimenting, allowing mistakes, and letting expression take the lead. It might mean trying new techniques, embracing imperfection, or expressing something deeply personal, knowing that the outcome is uncertain but trusting the process.

In life, it means making choices that foster growth, even when they feel uncertain, setting boundaries, stepping into the unknown, allowing myself to be vulnerable. A meaningful risk is intentional, grounded in self-awareness.

A meaningful risk is never reckless. It’s an act of trust: trust in myself and in the possibility of something greater. And that, perhaps, is where true security begins.

The key difference is that in art, risk is often about process and expression, while in life, it’s about decision-making and personal evolution. But both require trust in oneself, in the unknown, and in the possibility of growth.

Here’s to embracing the two dimensions of dreaming, where safety grounds you and risk propels you toward your truest self.

Until next time!