Creative Sanctuaries: Using Art to Hold Space for Healing

There’s a Sanctuary Waiting Inside Me

I’ve always been drawn to art, but for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt I needed to be perfect at it. Even in second grade, I was paralyzed by the need to write the words “Dear Mom” perfectly on paper, erasing and rewriting until the paper tore apart beneath my pencil. This need for perfection followed me, and it’s been a thief—stealing moments of creation, of expression, of healing.

But art was always there, quietly waiting for me to return to it, not as a performance but as a sanctuary.

Photo by cottonbro studio

My mother was an artist. She made beauty with her hands—sketches, oil paintings, pastels, charcoal. She sheared sheep and spun thread on a drop spindle, and I tried to emulate her, hoping to catch a glimpse of her spirit in the strokes of my own paintbrush. I was captivated by her creativity, even though her struggles were heavy and hard to understand.

Maybe that’s why art has always held a sense of reverence for me. It was the language my mother spoke when words failed her, and it became mine when I couldn’t find my voice. But my relationship with art has been complicated. Sometimes it feels like a distant memory I’m still trying to touch.

There’s a tree from my childhood that I loved. I remember the feel of its bark, the way it stood so steady, so strong. I painted its bark once, in watercolors, trying to capture my love for it on paper. I didn’t realize then that I was painting more than a tree. I was painting a memory, a longing, a part of myself that needed to feel rooted again.

I used to think that healing was about fixing myself, about becoming something better. But I’m starting to understand that healing is about finding a way to hold all the pieces of who I am—messy, imperfect, real. And art helps me do that.

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The Space I Long For

I don’t have a dedicated art space. With five children, two dogs, two cats, two guinea pigs, and a snake, solitude is rare. My house is full of life, and noise, and clutter, and sometimes it feels like there’s nowhere to escape. I crave a room of my own—a place to paint, to write, to lay down and breathe without interruption. Even a closet-sized space would do.

But right now, my sanctuary is my garden. A suburban garden, crowded and tangled with life. It’s not much, but it’s mine. And I’ve been thinking of giving it a Choctaw name, to honor it as the sacred space it’s become for me. A place where I can feel the earth beneath my feet and remember that I belong, that I am rooted, even when I feel lost.

My perfectionism tries to follow me there, too. It tells me that I need everything to be just right before I can create—clean space, perfect supplies, quiet. But life isn’t clean or perfect or quiet. And if I wait for the perfect conditions, I’ll never begin.

I’m learning to show up as I am, to create anyway, to let go of my fear of getting it wrong. It’s messy work. It’s hard. But it’s real.

Photo by Sedanur Kunuk

Creating as a Way to Hold Space

Art isn’t about making something beautiful. It’s about making space to feel, to grieve, to hope, to remember. It’s about holding space for myself when I feel like I’m too much or not enough.

Sometimes that looks like neurographic art—a practice I stumbled upon when I needed to process a traumatic assault. It starts with scribbles on a page, letting my hand move however it wants, letting the chaos spill out. Then I go back and soften the edges, rounding out the sharp lines, bringing calm to the chaos. It’s not about making sense of the pain; it’s about making space for it.

Sometimes art looks like expressive writing, pouring my heart onto paper without censoring myself. Or it’s poetry, words tumbling out in fragments, breaking apart and coming back together. Sometimes it’s painting a tree’s bark to remember that I was once a child who felt safe and strong.

There’s no right way to create, and that’s the hardest lesson for me to learn. It’s hard because perfectionism has been my shield, my armor, my way of protecting myself from feeling not good enough. But it’s also been my cage, keeping me from showing up, from trying, from letting myself be messy and imperfect.

So I’m letting go, little by little, with each stroke of paint, each scribble on the page. I’m learning that art is about being present, about letting my heart spill out, unedited, raw, real.

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Letting Myself Be Seen

Art makes me feel vulnerable. It makes me feel exposed. But it also makes me feel free. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to be good enough, trying to prove that I belong. I’m realizing now that I don’t need to prove anything. I just need to be.

Photo by Taryn Elliott

I’m learning to see art as a practice of being present, of letting myself be seen—even if it’s just by me. I’m learning to honor my voice, my story, my messy, imperfect humanity. And I’m learning to create for me, not for anyone else.

I don’t know if I’ll ever feel like I’m good enough. But maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the point is just to show up, to keep trying, to keep creating, even when it feels hard, even when it feels like I’ll never get it right.

Because art isn’t about getting it right. It’s about holding space for everything I am—broken, beautiful, human.

Creating Your Own Sanctuary

If you’re struggling to find space for yourself, I want you to know that you’re not alone. It’s hard to create when life feels chaotic, when nothing feels like it belongs to you. But I’ve learned that even the smallest space can be a sanctuary. Even a single page in a journal. Even a few minutes with a paintbrush or a pen.

If you want to create your own sanctuary, start small. Let go of the idea of perfection. Let go of the need to get it right. Let yourself be messy. Let yourself be real.

Photo by Steve Johnson

Here are a few ideas to get you started:

• Neurographic Art: Scribble on a page, letting your hand move freely. Then go back and round out the sharp edges, softening the chaos.

  
  

• Expressive Writing: Set a timer for ten minutes and write without stopping. Let the words spill out, unedited, unfiltered.

  
  

• Visual Storytelling: Use colors and symbols to represent your emotions or memories. It doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to be real.

  
  

• Create Ritual: Light a candle, play music, or say a prayer before you begin. Create a sense of reverence for the time and space you’re carving out for yourself.

  
  

Your sanctuary doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours.

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Final Reflection: Your Story Matters

I’m learning that my story matters, even when it feels messy or broken. And yours does, too. Art is how we make sense of the world, how we hold space for our pain and our joy. It’s how we remember who we are.

So if you’re feeling lost or broken, if you’re struggling to find a place that feels like home, know that you can create it. With a pen, with a paintbrush, with your hands, with your heart.

Create your sanctuary. Hold space for yourself. Let your story be told.

Photo by Thought Catalog