A few years ago, I reached a place in life that broke me wide open. Up until then, I thought healing meant becoming some perfect version of myself — peaceful, put together, certain. Like one day I’d arrive at a polished version of wholeness.

What I’ve learned instead is that healing isn’t polished.

If you’re doing it honestly, it’s messy. All-encompassing. Uncomfortable. And real.

In my late 30s, I was diagnosed with a neuro-spicy mixture of Autism, ADHD, and C-PTSD — and suddenly, the world began to make sense in an entirely new way. I clung tightly to understanding it all. I dove into knowledge, into language, into answers… until eventually, I realized that understanding was only part of it.

EMDR became a space where things could finally be processed, not just explained. And somewhere in the middle of that — between grief and release, between unmasking and letting go of versions of myself that no longer served me — I started painting.

Watching color move and bleed into itself became a kind of breath. A quiet way of staying present. A way of sitting with what was hard without needing words to hold it all.

That space was (and still is) messy. Complicated. Sometimes too much.

But it’s also where I can meet myself, time and time again.

Painting became my anchor. It helped me breathe a little easier. It let me be still long enough to find a kind of peace that language couldn’t offer.

Today, creating isn’t just what I do — it’s how I move through the world. My livelyhood is in photography (TheMittenTog.com), but have always had a lovely affair with paints from time to time. My work is rooted in contrast: harshness softened by fading color, sharp edges melted down through patient layering. Proof that tenderness and intensity can exist in the same frame.

Thank you for stepping into this calm, colorful corner of mine.

From me to you,
x Dionel