I once sat down with my former self and asked her a question.

What do you dream of?

She told me, in a meek voice, that she didn’t have dreams anymore. They had been taken up by bipolar. By the constant swing of ups and downs. There just wasn’t any room left for her to dream.

So I asked again, this time thinking about the darkest depression she had lived through.

What do you dream of then?

She said everything felt dark.

I told her something we now live by …dark spaces are not the end of the story, but a place to begin. A blank canvas. Somewhere colour is ready to bloom.

So she started small. After almost a year of not creating, she returned to watered-down paints and paper. This time there were no expectations. No pressure. Just the first small steps out of illness, even if those steps only existed on the page.

I reminded her that there is a world beyond a diagnosis, and that if that world needs to live in art, or words, or quiet moments for a while, that’s okay.

Sometimes we need to see a path before we can believe it and before we can walk it.

Our own map….

She kept creating. Painting the highs and the lows. And over time, without forcing anything, she began to notice the middle.

A steadier place.

A place where living felt possible.

Now we sit together, side by side. Not in battle, but merged into this person who teaches others, who believes in their endless possibilities, and who sits across tables and asks the question that once saved her past and my present.

What do you dream of?

                         

Left: A younger April in a depressive episode               Right: April now