I had always hoped that art school would connect me with kindred spirits, people who shared my passion, and provide guidance that was nurturing and supportive of each individual's journey, free from judgment. Instead, I experienced the opposite, criticism and dismissal. My teachers didnβt understand my work, particularly the pieces I created about my dog's passing and the larger mysteries of life and death that I was trying to explore through it. They saw it as naive and childlike, especially the idea of grieving an animal.
And maybe, in a way, it is childlike. I approach many things with a sense of wonder and curiosity, which I believe is essential to the creative process. But at the time, their reaction made me feel ridiculed, even pathologized, as if my emotions and artistic perspective were something to be corrected or made to fit a more detached, conceptual mold. My way of creating, deeply personal, emotional, and raw, was seen as not artsy enough, not intellectual enough, or even 'too personal', as if true artistic value had to be filtered through layers of theory to be taken seriously.
On top of that, they pushed intellectual analysis, words, theories, structured critique, when I was still trying to process everything through feeling and emotion. I didnβt yet have the language for what I was exploring, and I didnβt even fully understand my own place in the world as a highly neurodivergent person. The framework I was given was entirely Western philosophy, which didnβt touch on the depths of impermanence, the beauty and mystery of existence and death, in the way I personally felt them. It left me disconnected, lost in concepts that didnβt resonate with my raw experience of loss and wonder.
It wasnβt until later, when I read more about Buddhism, that I found something that truly spoke to the questions I had been asking all along. The concept of impermanence, the interconnectedness of all living beings, and the idea that suffering isnβt something to be avoided, but to be faced with open awareness, changed how I viewed my own emotions. I learned that the Buddha himself meditated in graveyards, contemplating decay, not to dwell in sadness but to strip away illusion and see life as it truly is, fleeting, interconnected, and sacred in its impermanence.
This also reminded me of chΓΆd, the Tibetan Buddhist practice of confronting fear directly, offering oneself to death, to the unknown, dissolving the ego rather than resisting what feels uncomfortable. It made me realize that facing loss, mortality, and transformation head-on isnβt morbid or sentimental, itβs a way of embracing reality fully, without turning away. And in that, there is something deeply creative.
Of course, Iβm human too. I struggle with the fear of losing loved ones, with the ache of knowing that everything I love is impermanent. But Iβve also come to see grief not just as pain, but as a doorway, one that allows me to feel more, not less. To love more deeply, to appreciate more fully, to connect in a way that isn't just about holding on, but about being with the fleeting, beautiful, aching reality of existence.
Beyond Buddhism, I also found echoes of this understanding in animist and indigenous perspectives, where the boundary between life and death isnβt as rigid, and where animals, land, and spirits are deeply woven into the fabric of existence. These views made me feel less alone in my instincts, grief for an animal is real, and so is the mystery of their passing. It doesnβt need to be just for children or dismissed as sentimental.
Now, years later, I understand things differently. I know that outside of school is where I found my people, the fellow weirdos who get it. And with them, I finally feel seen. And while outside validation isnβt the most important thing, it is important. To be seen by others helps you see yourself, to recognize that your way of feeling, thinking, and creating isnβt wrong, that you are not alone. And more than anything, I know that my ability to be vulnerable, to face impermanence, to create from love, loss, and the vast mystery of existence, is not a weakness. Itβs worth it.
