Art Imitates Life

A letter to myself on my birthday

It’s my birthday and I’ve been feeling particularly reflective about this spin around the sun… Thirty-three. There’s something sacred about this year. Feels like I’m between two worlds; my past self and my future self. I’ve spent the past year digging deep into the past—searching for answers, codes, signs to understand more of who I am. A trip back home to New York last summer resurfaced an artifact that brought a few things into full view for me.

When I was around 8 years old, my parents inherited the house we lived in. We moved from the one-bedroom apartment they were renting downstairs to the three-bedroom upstairs. I remember all the construction that went on. On any given weekend, my Dad would be working on different rooms in our pre-war, two-family house. I remember the ever-present smell of paint and wood grinding. My favorites were the trips to the furniture and home improvement stores; rubbing my hands all over carpet samples, collecting paint swatches like Pokemon cards and daydreaming on pretty princess bedroom sets.

When it came to the art in the house, it seemed to just show up. My Mom was into cottage-style decor at the time. Paintings of dark-skinned subjects or quaint seaside landscapes decorated the walls alongside family portraits over time. And there’s one art piece that I’ve come to deeply appreciate…

The following reflection comes from a voice recording I made on August 9th, 2024. I revisited it recently and edited it as a letter to myself for my birthday, I hope you enjoy it.

Merryl Jaye, Gracie’s Garden, print of oil on canvas

Imagine this: you're 12 years old. You have your own girly pink bedroom and an extra living room (your own playroom, honestly) complete with a TV where you watch endless hours of Disney Channel and a computer where you play The Sims. Your hobbies had you in a constant state of world-building. There's ample space for your toys, an old plaid tweed couch that doubles as a pullout bed for the many sleepovers you have with friends and cousins. The walls are an eggshell white, the crown molding painted a deep burgundy, and in that room, there’s a large image hanging on the wall.

A Black woman. Beautiful. Slender dressed in all-white. Kneeling near a white picket fence, pausing to smell the flowers.

You don’t give the painting much thought in the way that an adult might study art, but you notice that most of the paintings in your home feature people with skin the color of yours. Women in soft, romantic moments existing in what appears to be bliss. They remind you of the way your mom gets ready to go to parties with your dad, or how you imagine life might be if you were a princess. And, in many ways, you are.

Then, you grow up. You spend less time at home, more time at the mall, at friends’ houses. When you are home, you’re in your room where the walls are filled with Word Up! and Teen Vogue magazine pages. Now you’re always on your laptop or your cell phone, no longer paying much attention to that extra space where she hangs. Years pass, and after college, you return home. This time, you choose another bedroom; downstairs, blank, untouched. You cover its walls with your own art, filling the space with things that speak to you now.

Once again, you leave. You move in with someone. You decorate, but not with the same images. And when that chapter ends, you return home once more, bringing the remnants of your old apartment with you. You move back into that room…the one with the lady in her garden. You add your own art, but you don’t take her down. Something about her just belongs there.

Then you leave home again—this time, for good. You buy your own home. You decide, like your mother, to fill it with beautiful images of Black women, capturing the essence of life the way you always saw it growing up. Your walls reflect joy, rest, and abundance. And then, you step outside. You look at your empty yard and decide this too should be art. You start to garden. You plan for the flowers that will bloom, the colors that will fill the space, and one day, as you work in the soil, you see yourself. Just like her.

A woman kneeling in her garden. Taking time to smell the flowers, to admire each delicate petal. And suddenly, it all connects.

You think of your grandmother, who had a garden of her own, full of remedies you’re still discovering. You think of your mother, who, though not a gardener herself, always kept a little tuintje; a small corner of green. You think of the images she chose to fill your childhood home. The way she manifested a life for herself, which then manifested a life for you. You think of how you became a princess after all.

You feel grateful—to your mother, for choosing that image. To your younger self, for keeping it. To your mind, for remembering it. And to God, for revealing to you that perhaps you were seeing yourself all along.

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💌 A Birthday Gift from Me to You (Well, Five of You!)

To celebrate turning 33 and the soft, sacred growth this year brings, I’m gifting 5 subscriptions to Letters From The Safe House.

If there’s someone you know who’d love this space, or if you’ve been quietly waiting for the right moment to go deeper, this is your sign. 💫

To enter:

Reply to this email or drop a comment below letting me know who you’d like to gift a subscription to (even if it’s yourself!). I’ll pick 5 names next week.

Here’s to growing this garden together!

Cheers / Proost,

Jess