Rooted in Chaos

In a world consumed by consumerism, at what point is society invited to remember the magic of being alive?

For me, art is that magic.

Art is chemistry and experimentation. It is exploration and emotional excavation. It challenges us. It pulls thoughts and feelings up from the depths of our subconscious and places them squarely in our hands, asking us to look, really look. Art implores us to wake up. To see magic. To feel magic. To step away from the relentless noise imposed upon us and remember that we are human beings, not machines.

Our society is plagued with diseases of both body and mind. That has been true for a long time. But where do we find solace now?

Behind the glowing screens of our phones?In endless scrolling?In bite-sized clips of other people’s lives, lived for us, instead of by us?

We suppress our imagination. We erase boredom—the very thing meant to nudge us toward curiosity, invention, and creation. We numb ourselves instead.

And all the while, expectations pile up.

Be attractive.

Be productive.

Grind harder.

Make time for self-care...but don’t let it interfere with your output.

Be a devoted parent.

Be everything to everyone.

Eat right.

Be social.

Work a 9–5, which has quietly become an 8–7 because if you aren’t working overtime, are you even valuable?

Over winter break, my husband and I made a conscious decision: we would give one another space for our own hobbies while our kids were home. What happened felt almost radical in its simplicity.

Our family thrived.

Creativity fed our souls. We felt grounded. Present. Calm. Regulated. Our moods softened. Our nervous systems exhaled. And our children, who are always watching, always absorbing, mirrored that energy. They played together with ease. They invented games. They made art. They became more independent, more emotionally regulated, more themselves.

We all quietly dreaded what would happen when school and work resumed.

And, predictably, the shift was immediate.

My husband returned home after twelve-hour days depleted and drained. Our children came home exhausted, dysregulated, and snappish with one another. Their overwhelm fed into mine. By 7 p.m., we were all ready to collapse into bed... not restored, just spent.

It feels like an unbreakable cycle.

My husband works to support our family. Life grows more expensive by the day while systems meant to protect and support us fail in meaningful ways. He cannot quit his job to pursue something he loves. I cannot step into his role, I would never earn the same income, and childcare costs alone make that impossible. Trust feels fragile everywhere. Even in medicine, we question motives, incentives, and agendas.

So I find myself asking: what is the point of it all?

This year, I am choosing something quieter. Something deeper.

I am choosing to stay rooted.

Rooted in my body.

Rooted in my mind.

Rooted in my soul.

I am choosing to be grounded rather than rushed. Introspective rather than reactive. To allow growth to unfold naturally, instead of forcing it into existence.

We are often told that beauty exists in chaos, that calm follows the storm, that joy comes after sorrow. I believe these things are generally true, but the storm we are living in feels endless. Years-long. Relentless.

When does reprieve come?

Is it something we must cultivate individually, moment by moment, in the midst of it all? Is there no collective exhale coming? No full peace of mind while our world exists in a constant state of near-war—nuclear threats, bombings, poverty, violence, exploitation, suffering?

These are not new realities. Humanity has always carried them. But why have we accepted them as normal?

I believe art is needed now more than ever.

Music.

Theater.

Dance.

Two-dimensional creation.

Three-dimensional creation.

Hobbies of any kind.

Anything that brings joy is not frivolous. It is essential.

Expression is essential.

Individualism is essential.

Creation is resistance.

Is existential crisis the theme of 2026? Will we all find ourselves searching for meaning, wondering why we exist, what we are working toward, whether we matter at all?

I find meaning in art.

In the act of creation.

In the way colors bleed into one another.

In layered materials.

In the truth that chaos, given time and attention, can become something unexpectedly beautiful.

Art reminds me that magic still exists, and that sometimes, the reprieve we are waiting for must first be made by our own hands.

With love,

Emily