Climbing Out of Something

I don’t usually write this openly.

This came out of a mix of things—seasonal shifts, something that happened in the Toronto arts community, and thoughts I couldn’t quite place anywhere else.

I’m not sure if this is meant to be shared or just written. But for now, I’m leaving it here.

It’s spring, and thank god for that. I find winters hard. The warmer weather, new plant life, the sound of birds—life beginning to wake up again—help me out of the funk.

I put a great deal of effort into my inner world. I have to. It’s not always easy. Just because I post the highlights doesn’t mean there aren’t lows. For me, focusing on the lows only keeps me stuck there, and it can get hard to get out. So if you don’t see me on social, it usually means I’m climbing out of something.

This past month, a member of the Toronto arts community died. It was a big shock. He was well loved and open about his experiences with mental health—it was a big part of his work. I had a booth across from his at the 2024 Riverdale Artwalk, and he explained his work’s formula to me. He was a really cool guy. 

I wish I had gone for a drink with him after that, but I didn’t message. I can be shy about contacting people—social anxiety. In retrospect, you always wish you had tried.

I don’t know how he died. I saw comments online speculating… like the math equations he used in his paintings—I don’t know if they added up. It’s not my place to pry. But I’ve been thinking about him since I heard the news. His work would show up in my feed, and I’d read the captions and comments, trying to get to know him in the way I wish I had.

Social media has become strange. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a lack of emotional intelligence because of it. While many posts were meant to honour him, some felt off. There’s a difference between honouring someone and trying to get attention through tragedy.

I’m writing this because some things need to be said out loud. He was a successful artist whose career was still rising. He had plans and so much love. And still. 

But it’s more than that—I know. Maybe because I know, it makes me wonder: can anyone ever fully heal from depression?

There’s this thing about depression where you get used to feeling it. In a way, it becomes your emotional set point. A point where, if you go beyond it—feel something lighter, something better—it can feel weird, hard to trust.

So you return to what’s familiar. Back to that set point where you feel more comfortable. Yes, I think I’ve gotten comfortable with that feeling at times.

Moving beyond this takes a lot of effort. It’s constant course correcting and vigilance—what’s often called Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT). I once had a therapist who told me that people don’t often get out of their depression because they don’t do the work. Maybe because the simplest thing wasn’t done, or told to them—you have to make that set point higher.

It’s possible. But once you learn how to do this, you’ll probably have to keep doing it. Maybe there isn’t a clean “cure.” If a lifetime without depression is the goal, it may not be realistic. Instead, expect that it may come in waves. And know you can get through it, because there are tools.

I’ve had to sit on that couch alone. Through those tears, the feelings of unworthiness—feel it. Question it. Learn how to move through it. And know that for the rest of your life, this may be wash, rinse, repeat. In my experience, it has been.

I’ve found that the more I focus on something, the more I see it. That’s true for emotions too.

My art is deeply about my life—my experiences, what I notice and pay attention to. The repeated empty tables and chairs are invitations to connect, to place yourself in the seat. The light and colour are my way of seeing life—a choice I make to look toward brighter things. What I focus on shapes my inner world.

I’m not sure if bringing up this artist’s death becomes one of those “off” moments. But it felt like something I needed to take out of my head and put into words. In speaking openly about mental health, he was trying to help others.

Maybe saying your experience is the way to go. I’ve always been too shy—too embarrassed to.

But you never know who you’ll reach.
He didn’t know who he would reach.

So keep going, keep trying.
2+2=5.
YOLO.