Introduction: from Lemonade Letters to Eunice Lee

At the age of 36, I have decided I want to become a painter when I grow up.

I’ve been getting to know myself the past few years, sloughing off the various sticky patches I had adhered to my outer self over the years to project perfection to the world: submissive and obedient pastor’s daughter. 4.0 student. Good Christian. Active in the church. Humble leader. Accessible and relational pastor. Well-rounded. Attentive wife. Sacrificially unselfish. Academic professional. Practical. Easygoing. Thick-skinned. I always know what I’m doing. Never put yourself forward. Modest and demure. But also extroverted. Friendly and welcoming.

Objectively, these labels actually sound wonderful. The problem was I pursued them according to external standards to prove my worth. I believed I had to in order to be good and accepted, rather than pursuing them as things I valued out of autonomy. Others’ voices mattered more than my own. My own voice was drowned in the sea of my parents’ voices, church leaders’ voices, men’s voices, American cultural voices.

I’ve been searching and wandering for the last few years, recovering from burnout in ministry that was precipitated by the belief that my value and worth came from fulfilling others’ expectations and standards, and with the help of therapy, uncovered how the childhood trauma of losing my biological mom as an infant contributed to this. In the midst of this, something that gained the courage to poke its head out from the bushes was a dream that I thought I wasn’t permitted to dream, one that I had thrown aside when I was a kid as being too impractical: to be an artist.

As an adult, I resisted the thought as not only impractical, but also pretentious, random, too late. I’ve already invested in my education in a completely different direction—what a waste of time and money. There are so many people more talented, more experienced, and more educated than me in this. Could I actually be good enough? Why painting of all things? I’m too old to get started now.

But something happens when I paint. I feel happy. Joyful.

I tried my hand at hand lettering (no pun intended), and when I first discovered it, it felt like it was something specifically made for me. Neat handwriting had always been something I prided myself on and combining that with art seemed a match made in heaven. But frankly, it only stressed me out. I wasn’t motivated to practice and completing various commissions drove my anxiety levels sky high because it was, yet again, about fulfilling others’ expectations and wants. For a while, I continued trudging on. I thought to myself, “I should do this because I’m skilled at it, people seem to like my work, and I can actually earn some money from it.” Others’ approval—check. Practical—check. Therefore, “I should like this.”

But why should I like something if I don’t? If I didn’t, I didn’t. Isn’t it funny when you’re so used to listening to others’ voices instead of your own, how the default is that you “should” do something you don’t want to do? It was a big step to say out loud for me, “I don’t want to do wedding signs or birthday boards.” It was another step to say, “No,” when a request for a commission came in.

I realized, spending time on something I didn’t want to do took away from spending time on what I actually wanted to invest in, from the life I wanted to build.

I’m grateful that hand lettering reintroduced me to art, but making that shift from hand lettering to painting also reflects my larger inner journey of no longer seeking to fulfill standards imposed on me or internalized from external sources. Not only have I discovered that I want to paint, but I’ve also come to terms with the fact that I am what’s called a “highly sensitive person” (see www.hsperson.com for more information—I promise, it’s a real thing!) in addition to being an INFJ. Thick-skinned I certainly am not, and in fact, prone to misunderstanding others’ emotions as my own. That’s good to know.

Neither am I extroverted. I still want to serve and connect with others, but I also need breaks—sometimes really long ones—and time alone, and that isn’t being selfish. It’s about maintaining a sustainable balance.

I want to make it clear that I’m not advocating for some reckless individualism that disregards responsibility or other people’s interests. The point is that most of my life has been spent on one side of the scale, forming my choices and grading myself according to rubrics—literal and figurative, living out of fear and guilt, rather than appreciating and accepting who I am and how I’m made, even if that’s different from what other people are doing (which, if I’m honest, will be often, because I’m kind of a weirdo). Sometimes it has been holding myself to expectations that other people don’t even actually have of me. Hand lettering wasn’t something I had to do—I wasn’t depending on it to pay the bills. Yet somehow just because someone wanted me to make them a birthday board, I was a terrible person if I didn’t do it? And guess what. A few years ago, I learned my mom would've supported my pursuit of art and, in fact, had wished she’d been able to sign me up for art classes. However, in my youth, that had never registered in me amidst the chorus of chatter that pushed for a specific version of success.

It’s more than okay to do something because it’s practical (making a living is certainly a valid need!), it’s more than okay to sacrifice for others (a beautiful thing!). But it’s completely different to do these things from the vantage point of knowing who I am and my limitations, and deeming them as choices, not compulsions.

So here I am. I know there’s a lot of work ahead in growing as an artist and developing my skills and my style, but it’s work that I have chosen. This is my coming-out party…or rather, I’m finally giving myself permission to decline my invitation to the party and stay inside alone.