Before launching my business this January, I had many ideas—blog posts I wanted to write, resources to develop, plans to connect, and share offerings. Many of those plans are still in motion, and I’m eager to share them in the coming weeks. But given the current landscape, I’ve also had to adjust, leaning into what feels right when so many of us are navigating deep uncertainty—about jobs, security, even our writing—and seeking ways to be present for each other.
I think about friends and colleagues involved in research and funding discussions and the community organizations grappling with how to sustain work that is vital to those who need it most. We all carry so much that it can feel impossible to name. I share this with anyone else who feels unmoored; you are not alone with those feelings.
Previously, my blog posts offered writing prompts, reflections on writing through chaos and grief, and thoughts on the power of pausing. This time, I want to shift focus. Instead of writing strategies, I want to share what has been holding me steady—what has helped me find my footing in this moment. Perhaps this can invite you to consider what grounds you when you need it most.
I don’t know yet if this will become a series, as there are many things I turn to—music, walks, art, and collage-making. But today, I feel compelled to share work from an artist I return to again and again as someone whose work has given me the stillness to understand my feelings and the clarity to determine my next steps. Sam Gilliam’s work has been a guiding force through many periods of uncertainty. The featured image for this post, Loving Lightly, was one I returned to again and again during a pivotal time of discernment as I navigated the next steps in my career pivot.
In early 2023, the Ackland Museum had one of the late Sam Gilliam’s lithographs, Fire, in its contemporary gallery. I was teaching a class, and we frequently visited the museum. That semester was particularly challenging, personally and professionally. I was navigating new courses in unfamiliar formats. For an entire month, family members had COVID. As a caregiver to a partner with complex needs, children, and a father with a terminal illness, during that time, I often felt like I was on fire—running from one responsibility to the next, trying to put out flames wherever they arose.
On days when my class visited the museum, I made a point to spend at least five minutes in front of Gilliam’s work after class. Those moments were precious, though not without hesitation—I had a fifty-minute commute home and an endless list of responsibilities. But in those five minutes, I allowed myself to be still, to engage with the painting. Sometimes, the interaction simply meant wondering how I would get through the evening. Other times, I let myself imagine—just for a few minutes—what else might be possible for me.
I’m captivated by this piece for many reasons, but one day, during my brief visit, I took a picture of the painting to keep on my phone as a meditation aid. Looking at it later, I noticed something striking: my reflection was embedded within the artwork. There I was, staring into Gilliam’s swirling reds and blues—colors evoking flames—yet still visible, not entirely consumed. This small ritual required so little yet offered profound relief.
We are collectively in the midst of a different kind of chaos and unknowing. The relentless news cycle sends my body into an almost automatic state of anxiety. The uncertainty of what lies ahead creates a longing for something steady, something to hold on to. And so, I find myself returning to Gilliam’s work.
I’ve been fortunate to see several of his pieces; each time, I feel the same grounding presence. Maybe it’s because I first encountered his art during another season of upheaval and grief, and it steadied me. Now, I return to my collection of photos from museum visits, using them as a visual anchor—a way to find stillness in the present moment.
When I look at Gilliam’s work—his use of color and texture, his defiance of traditional frames, the sense of movement and freedom in his abstraction—I recognize what I crave most right now: the ability to be still, to imagine, to find hope amid uncertainty.
What’s holding you steady?
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