When talking about art as therapy, it can be difficult to conceptualize the idea if not versed in the medium. For most of us, our core memories of using art lie with school or play, a sense of long lost childhood that may appear forgotten, intangible. As adults, the way we engage with the world often becomes shaped by sources outside of ourselves: work, family, responsibility, survival. But if we’re lucky enough to find a moment to be still—to simply be with ourselves—we might reconnect with something quiet but powerful. That little voice that whispers our story.
Before you keep reading, I invite you to take a moment to do just that. Set aside your laptop or phone. And if you’re curious, pick up something to draw or write with. Start doodling—no pressure, no expectations—just you, yourself, and wherever that little voice guides you. Let this be a soft meditation, a way to connect more deeply with yourself as we step into Ana’s story—a story that may reflect something within your own.
Tara (not her real name), a woman in her late 50s, began therapy with me following a series of painful and life-altering events: a recent job loss, a once-fulfilling marriage now strained by medical issues and financial hardship, and a long history within a familial culture that often felt diminishing. What began with detailed stories and soon transpired into expressive artworks; Tara began to revisit moments from her past where life felt romantic, where she was as free on the outside as she felt on the inside. Upon first impressions, what was evident through her dialogues was a desperate need for a sense of purpose, a sense of connection. More importantly, there was a whisper of rebellion, a quiet strength that longed to be seen.
What sets art therapy apart from more traditional approaches is that it’s often guided by something subconscious—creativity. Through creative expression, we’re able to step outside of black-and-white thinking. We experience a person’s story not in terms of “good” or “bad,” “healthy” or “unhealthy,” but in the deeply complicated grayscale that makes life what it is: layered, complex, and meaningful.
Through Tara’s artwork, we were able to bring to life the pain she felt she needed to hide in order to play the role of a “strong and capable” woman, as well the parts of her that made her undeniably just that. In this case, and in many others, Tara’s art became both a release and a reflection—a tangible record of her story, and a totem of her resilience.
As therapy progressed, Tara’s art helped us navigate towards a more vulnerable place. The focus began to shift toward her mother—specifically, the pain surrounding her loss. Tara was eager to bring her mother’s artwork into sessions, recreating these pieces, and in one way or another, bringing her mother, and the support that she was, back into Tara’s life. Thanks to the safe space that we had now cultivated, Tara was able to speak aloud the shattering images of her mother’s death, and the aching disconnection that had swallowed her into a life she no longer recognized as her own. Tara had been moving through her days tethered to the grief of a mother she could not save, seeking resolution through relationships that, while meeting a deep need for familiarity, had quietly muted her truth—her desires that longed to be lived.
In Tara’s case, art therapy helped us give voice to an event that had left her stuck, while gently tracing the patterns that continued to feed that feeling. After moving through the pain and finally giving voice to what had long lived inside her, Tara began to feel something different: space. With that space came a more manageable tolerance for change, for uncertainty. And from there, Tara began taking small, intentional steps in her daily life toward the version of herself she had always longed to become. Not perfectly, not all at once—but in a way that felt real, lived, and hers.
