How I’ve Been Moving My Own Goalposts

I’ve been creating and publishing my work for years, but if you heard me talk about my work, you might think I’m just getting started.

I have this strange habit that I’ve noticed. I always add a “but” to every milestone I reach. In 2015, I published my first coloring book. This was long before the age of AI and before everyone was selling and publishing coloring books in droves. It was a huge feat for me because I had no formal education in design or tools but in the back of my mind it wasn’t a big deal because it wasn’t a novel. I sold my art and designs to people all over the world, but it was only a few dollars at a time. I’ve been interviewed on the radio a couple of times…but they were only thirty minutes. I’ve been featured in a local newspaper (The Star) and magazines…but no one remembers them. Even my poems, two in a local online literary journal and one in an international one, also come with the quiet disclaimer that they weren’t in a fancy, hardbound anthology.

In 2018, two of my paintings were part of a group show in Lisbon, Portugal. At the time, I remember feeling honored…and then telling myself right away that they were only small pieces, as if that made it less important that people on the other side of the world had chosen and seen them.

My brain seems to be programmed to move the goalposts as soon as I score. Everything I’ve done immediately ceases to count because it wasn’t more extensive, profitable, or longer. It’s a silent erasure of my own work and not humility. And the more I consider it, the more I see how deeply ingrained it is. Somewhere along the way, I learned that worth could only be measured in extremes.

I think part of it stems from the way accomplishments are often celebrated. Best-sellers, award winners, and overnight sensations often make the headlines. Seldom do the slower, more steady steps receive the same attention. Perhaps that’s why I find it difficult to appreciate them in my own life because they’re not the kind of victories that garner much attention.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about the new voices I’ve seen online. People who are just starting out as artists or writers are celebrating their first novel draft, drawing, or Etsy sale. Their happiness is apparent. They aren’t comparing it to some unseen standard. They don’t say “but” after their announcement. I wish I could have that. And it makes me think about how many moments I’ve missed out on because I wouldn’t let myself be proud for more than a second.

The truth is that my creative life has been full. I’ve brought six coloring books from idea to market, my art and designs have traveled farther than I have, I’ve done an overseas group show, I’ve done radio interviews, print features, and years of steady blogging. It exists not because I waited for permission, but because I put it out there into the world. And yet, I’ve been the one who’s diminishing it.

Here’s another truth: I don’t share links to my interviews or published works on my blog or social media. They carry my real identity, but I want to stay anonymous for now. That gives me a sense of freedom because I can create without worrying about my name, my face, or the expectations that come with them. Without that attachment, I can try new things, explore, and even fail without worrying that my whole identity is at stake.

The price of this mindset, both the anonymity and the constant moving of the goalposts, isn’t just emotional. It seeps into motivation. You never feel like you’ve arrived when you keep moving the finish line. And without that rest and a moment of acknowledgement and gratitude, the trip starts to feel like an endless uphill climb.

I’ve been trying to change this by creating tangible reminders that my work is real and worth noticing, not by forcing myself to feel proud. I made a “Proof Folder.” I keep screenshots of kind messages from readers or buyers, pictures of my books and art in the world, sales confirmations, and links to features or interviews. It’s an effort to fight against my habit of forgetting. I’ll open the folder on days when the “but” tries to take over. I’ll remind myself that the work was done, that it mattered, and that it still does.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to completely silence the voice in my head that says, ‘It’s not enough.’ But I might be able to learn to say something more true: It’s all mine. I made it and that counts.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

When Entertainment Crosses the Line | On Exploiting Women’s Pain for Ratings

Something very disturbing happened on Malaysian live TV last night. During Anugerah Melodi, Bella Astillah was made to present an award to the woman her ex-husband had cheated on her with. It was like watching a slow-motion car crash; you want to look away, but you can’t because you can’t believe that something so cruel could be planned, aired, and packaged as entertainment.

And what’s worse? Some people had the nerve to call Bella unprofessional for walking away. Let me be clear: Bella didn’t overreact. She didn’t make a fuss and was able to hold back. And the fact that she had to hold back at all, in a situation that no woman should ever have to be in, is the real tragedy. What happened wasn’t entertainment. It was a public humiliation well-dressed with glitter and applause.

It’s absolutely shameful for a system to think it’s okay to put a woman in the same spotlight as the person who hurt her family, just for shock value. And then to show it live, knowing all the history and emotional turmoil that went into it? It’s bad taste with a total lack of respect for human dignity.

I usually don’t pay much attention to the entertainment industry, whether it’s local or international. I’ve never really been interested in it, and most news about celebrities goes right by me. But this incident made me livid. Because this wasn’t a drama for Slot Akasia (TV segment for local drama) but real pain being paraded as a spectacle. And as someone who has been through a lot of trauma myself, I couldn’t help but feel triggered by how easily that pain was exploited and dismissed.

This is where we need to have a larger conversation about the ethics of our entertainment industry. And it doesn’t stop there. What we show on TV isn’t a random thing. Our kids are watching. They’re learning how to treat people by watching how we treat them, especially how we treat people who are hurting. And in a country where bullying in schools is becoming all too common, moments like these send a dangerous message: that it’s okay to make fun of someone’s misfortune and to humiliate them in public for fun. We are showing our kids that it is okay to mock someone’s pain instead of showing compassion.

This was bullying, plain and simple, with stage lights and applause. And if we’re not careful, we’re teaching the next generation that being mean is acceptable and even rewarded. How did we end up here? When did we start treating other people’s pain as a show? Bella’s case is not one of a kind. We’ve seen this happen over and over again: trauma being used to get ratings, tears being turned into headlines, and women being told they have to keep it all together for the show.

Some might say that’s how show business works. But no, it isn’t. That’s exploitation and there’s nothing glamorous or entertaining about it.

We should talk about how the media often takes advantage of women’s shame. The pattern is disturbingly consistent, whether it’s reality TV setting women up to be shamed, talk shows baiting vulnerable guests for views, or award ceremonies like this one forcing a confrontation that never needed to happen. The main idea is that your pain is only worth as much as the clicks or views it gets.

The aftermath makes it worse. Many people who watched Bella instead of standing by her side mocked her, questioned her professionalism, and invalidated her trauma. Because it seems that when a woman doesn’t smile and appear “redha” through her sorrow, she becomes the problem.

But let’s turn the tables for a second. Think about how it would feel for a man to have to give an award to the man his wife cheated on him with. Would people think he was being dramatic? Or would we be outraged on his behalf?

People expect women to always be gracious and smile politely. Women are always expected to rise above and endure. But when they don’t, the reaction is quick. However, endurance is not the same as healing. And being polite when someone betrays you isn’t professionalism but emotional suppression that comes at a cost.

Mental health is not a joke. Emotional abuse leaves real scars on people. And being triggered on live TV is not something to be mocked or dissected for gossip. People should be kind and show empathy. But last night, there was no empathy to be found. Instead, we saw a media industry that cares more about viral moments than about people’s lives.

So let’s call this out for what it is: unethical, tone-deaf, and deeply irresponsible.

TV3 Malaysia, you had many opportunities to do better. You knew the history and what was at stake. And you still chose to be sensational over being sensitive. You didn’t read the room and let Bella down. And by doing that, you failed every woman who has ever been told to suck it up, “redha,” and move on.

If you defended the setup or laughed it off, I ask you to think more deeply. Would you have been as calm as she was if you were in her shoes? If the pain were yours, would you call it “just an award presentation”?

We need to stop making trauma into entertainment. And we really need to stop expecting women to be composed when they are badly betrayed. We need to make a clear distinction between storytelling and exploitation to increase ratings and views.

Bella, you didn’t do anything wrong. Your emotions were valid and it took a lot of courage to say her name out loud and present her that award. Many of us saw you as a person who deserved respect and dignity and not a humiliating headline.

To the rest of us: let this be a reminder that empathy should never be optional, especially when the cameras are rolling.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

Remembering Zara | What Boarding School Taught Me About Bullying

When I first read about Zara Qairina, I felt a sharp, sick pull in my chest. She was only thirteen.

They said she fell from the third floor of her dorm. Some concluded she had taken her own life. Others claimed she was bullied, and that her body had been placed on the ground to make it appear like she jumped. Her family believed there was more than met the eye. They said she had told them, more than once, that she was being bullied. And now she’s gone.

It brought me back to my own boarding school days. Like Zara, I was thirteen when I stepped into that world. I was still twelve when I received an offer to pursue my secondary education at one of the top schools in Sarawak. My parents didn’t want me to go, but I insisted. For three months, they said no—then, finally, they relented.

Back then, we didn’t use the word “bullying.” The term we heard more often was “ragging,” usually carried out by seniors. I can’t speak for others, and certainly not for what boys experienced, but I can tell you what I went through.

Had I ever been bullied? Yes. But I didn’t recognise it as bullying at the time. I wasn’t a timid student, though I was quiet. I always pushed back. So I didn’t label those moments as something serious. But they were.

The first time I was bullied was in Form 2, when I was fourteen. The girl who targeted me was also in Form 2 but from another class. She was one of the prettiest girls that year. I hadn’t paid much attention to her because I mostly kept to myself and my circle of friends.

We were both in PBSM (Red Cross, or Red Crescent in Malaysia). That year, there was a three-day camping event, and by chance, I ended up in the same group as a senior—a Form 4 boy she had a crush on. I didn’t think much of it. He was just another teammate. However, she was consumed with jealousy. She began spreading rumours about me and told others to avoid me. One by one, people pulled away. I didn’t notice at first, but eventually, it became clear. My belongings were misplaced. My cupboard was ransacked. I suspected someone had even read my diary.

Friends gave subtle hints, and my instincts pointed to her. They had proof, but none of them dared to confront her. Meanwhile, she continued to pursue the boy; however, it was unsuccessful. Then, one day, as quickly as it started, the bullying stopped. She became friendly again. I never asked why. Maybe she realised the boy was never going to be hers, or maybe she just grew tired. Eventually, we became friends throughout the school years. And guess what? We’re still in touch to this day. And yes, I forgave her.

The second time it happened, I was in Form 4. This time, it came from the boys in my class. They bullied everyone, and I was no exception. They called me names—some rude, some degrading. I was upset, of course. But again, I fought back. I reported them to the disciplinary teacher, and they were punished. The bullying stopped. And funny enough, we all became friends. Some of them now hold director-level positions in the public and private sectors. One of the most notorious is now a respectable police officer. I sometimes wonder if he remembers any of those incidents, but I’ve never bothered to ask.

So how did all of this affect me?

It taught me that the world can be a cruel place. It taught me that not everyone is your friend. It taught me that bullies often prey on the quiet ones. And it taught me that sometimes, the only way out is to speak up and push back.

I believe Zara was a brave girl, and I believe she fought back too. But the system failed her. Somewhere along the way, someone didn’t listen and take her seriously. And now, we are left with heartbreak and unanswered questions.

Many Malaysians are shaken by her death. The police are still investigating. Until the investigation concludes and all suspects are questioned, everything remains speculation. But whatever the outcome, I hope the truth surfaces and justice is served.

And I hope we learn something.

We cannot romanticize boarding schools as character-building institutions while ignoring the rot beneath. We cannot continue to let children suffer in silence because “that’s how it’s always been.” That was my mentality back then. I thought ragging was normal, just a part and parcel of school life. All I had to do was endure it and be courageous enough to fight back.

But I was wrong. Bullying, no matter the form—is never normal. It is cruel, and it should be recognized as a crime under any law.

We have to be better. Not just for Zara, but for the next thirteen-year-old girls or boys who still believe they are safe.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

When the Car Broke Down, So Did I | But Here’s What I Learned

The car broke down today. Again.

It’s my husband’s car, and this would be the third time this year. We’ve brought it to different workshops, different mechanics, each one poking around and shrugging like it’s just one of those ghosts in the machine. But today, the mechanics finally identified the issues: spark plugs, cooling gasket, weak battery, frayed cables, a clogged pipe, and a radiator that desperately needs cleaning.

RM2,000. That’s the estimate. We have savings, sure, but can we replenish that money in time? That question alone pulled me into a mental spiral I’ve come to know too well. A slow, heavy dread that swirls up in the pit of your stomach. But I caught myself. I reminded myself I had two choices: let that worry snowball and bury me, or breathe, look at the situation for what it is, and figure out what I can do.

We still need to fix the car and to keep living. And worrying, as familiar as it is, won’t do the fixing for me. What weighs heavier than the cost, though, is the guilt. There’s this stubborn voice inside whispering that I’m not doing enough. It keeps insisting I should be contributing more consistently. My husband works full-time, and I write, and I have small online hustles. Sometimes they bring in decent money but sometimes they don’t. But I squirrel away every ringgit I earn. And over the years, those small savings have paid for medical bills, groceries, furniture, school supplies, and, of course, rainy days that came without warning.

When I zoom out, I see that I’ve contributed steadily throughout the years. And yet, the guilt persists. Because we live in a world that ties a person’s worth to the size of their paycheck. Is that the only currency that matters? But what about everything else?

What about the sleepless nights, the emotional labor, the struggles of parenting and managing a household, especially when they are rarely acknowledged? What about the unpaid hours spent raising children into kind, curious humans? What about those people who hold things together behind the scenes? However, I’ve learned, slowly, not to compare. I tried not to look at working mothers and feel small. I make an intentional effort not to pit stay-at-home and working women against each other. We each make trade-offs and we all carry invisible costs. I’ve stopped wasting energy trying to measure myself against others. I’d rather pour that energy into things that feed my soul, like writing and making art.

Still, the financial anxiety is real. We’ve been living frugally for years. And yet, one broken part in a car can shake the balance. It’s a common story. Everywhere I look, people are stretched thin, in Malaysia or elsewhere around the world. Even in countries like the U.S., I read about 80-year-olds still working because they can’t afford not to. That article haunted me.

It reminded me how fragile things can be, how illness, aging, or a single emergency can drain years of careful saving. And it made me think, what kind of life do I want to build? What kind of resilience do I want to have? I don’t want to live in fear. So I’m choosing to stay patient, calm, and clear. I’m choosing to meet this setback with grace, even when it feels unfair. I tell myself this: take a deep breath. Don’t panic. Worry adds nothing. It just takes and drains. And right now, I need all my strength to stay grounded and keep creating and contributing, not just financially, but emotionally and meaningfully.

If you’re reading this in the middle of your own breakdown, whether mechanical or emotional, I want you to know: you’re not alone. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed and cry. It’s okay to spiral too. I did that often but when the tears dry, try again. If you’re like me, you have people who are depending on you for survival, and no matter how unfair it might sound, we have to keep going even when we feel like falling apart.

Sometimes, a broken car teaches you more than a working one ever could. It reminds you of what you’re capable of. And if you’re still standing after everything life has asked of you, then maybe you’re not broken at all. You’re probably just in the middle of building something unshakable.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

Things I Was Told Not to Say (But I’m Saying Them Anyway)

Like everyone else, I was raised to be polite, to lower my gaze, and to keep my mouth shut before it bleeds arrogance or truth. But truth doesn’t always need to wait for permission and I’m done looking for it.

This is a list of things I was told not to say because they are deemed shocking and inappropriate. But I’m saying them anyway, because being silent isn’t always safe. It was a slow suffocation and death.

I was told not to say:

“I’m tired of being the emotional one, the one who feels things.”

But I am. It’s draining carrying the burden of my own feelings and everyone else’s. You say I’m too touchy. I say you need to be more sensitive.

“Sometimes I don’t want to be a mother.”

It doesn’t mean I don’t love my children. It means I want to disappear sometimes. To be free of endless burdens and responsibilities. I want to just be me without being attached to roles and expectations, even just for a while. Just long enough to find myself again.

“Marriage is lonely.”

Yes, even the good ones. Especially the good ones; when you’ve been together long enough, you know each other too much there are barely any surprises anymore.

“I still think about the one who left.”

No, I don’t want him back. But he lives in the hallways of my memory, like when I stop to think about certain songs or street names or places. That’s not being unfaithful. It’s my memory and the only way to forget it is if I lost my memories to dementia or brain damage. Otherwise the memory remains. And I’m allowed to carry it.

“I don’t want to go to this church anymore.”

I believe in God. But I don’t believe in being controlled and being silenced. I don’t want to pretend everything’s fine when my spirit is clearly not. I’m not giving up on faith; I’m moving toward the truth.

“I feel ugly on some days.”

No amount of affirmations makes it disappear. There are days when I can’t stand my body. Some days I don’t even notice it at all. Both truths exist.

“I envy women who get to choose their identity.”

Because I never did. I was born into roles before I could choose which ones I liked. Wife and mother. Good girl. Christian. I played every one of them. But now I want to rewrite the script where the real me can finally be set free.

“I don’t want to be grateful all the time.”

Gratitude is holy. But forced gratitude is performance. I don’t owe anyone a smile when I’m breaking inside. I can be grateful and grieving at the same time.

“I want more.”

More silence. More passion. More space to create without guilt. More people who see me without needing me to explain myself. I want more than I was told I should ask for.

And yes, sometimes I want to be desired and not just needed. There’s a difference. And I feel it every time I’m touched with obligation instead of longing.

I was told not to say all of this. They are taboo and a good Christian woman, a wife and a mother, shouldn’t entertain these sinful thoughts.

I was told to play it safe. To keep my life neat, soft, godly. I was told not to stumble others in their faith.

But truth isn’t always soft. Truth can hurt and burn sometimes. And I’d rather burn than spend another decade in silence.

Call me whatever you want. A premenopausal woman in the heat of a midlife crisis. A delusional Christian woman being lured by the devil. These are some of my truths and I’ll not stop writing about them and shrink myself for others’s comfort. I’m so done with being prim and proper and always saying the right things all the time. I’m done with lying. It’s time for me to proclaim my truths and make them known to others.

The Things That Undid Me

I cooked my love down to tar,
a black syrup in the bottom of the pot.
It taste like a lie
but I said nothing.
I was raised to chew my
tongue for supper.

I sewn myself into the good wife’s dress,
blessed and above reproach,
but I swallowed my own teeth
like communion wafers.

My children pressed their ears to my palms
and heard singing.
But some nights,
my fingers were fists
full of burnt letters.
I’m no witch,
only a woman
who learned too late
that silence is murder.

The pastor preached be pure.
But I loved the smell of rain
in my dirty hair,
my body wanting
without shame.

God, forgive me–
not for sinning
but for the way I loved it:
the unwashed sheets,
the stains on the hymns,
the animal in me
that refused to kneel.

I’m not sorry for the smoke,
or the fire I’ve become.
I’m sorry it took me
this long to strike the match.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

What I Know Now That I’m in My 40s

As I get older, I realize that change doesn’t stop. You don’t reach a certain point where you finally feel “together.” When I was in my 20s, I thought that women in their 40s had it all figured out. They knew how to love, how to parent, and how to stay calm when their world fell apart and the bills were late and the kids were fighting. But now that I’m here, I know the truth: we’re all still learning and figuring things out.

In my 40s, I no longer chase the idea of being extraordinary. I want to be real, present, and kind to myself. I’ve stopped apologizing for being quiet, for needing time alone, or for feeling deeply. I used to shrink myself so people would find me easier to digest and tolerate. Now I let the fullness of who I am take up space, even if it makes other people feel uncomfortable.

I have learned that performance doesn’t determine one’s worth. Worth doesn’t come from being productive, getting praise, or doing everything right. Even when I’m still, I am still worthy. Or when I’m unseen or unnoticed. Or when I am not achieving a single thing. This kind of emotional growth doesn’t happen overnight. It came through years of burnout and soul-wrestling, trying to be everything to everyone and having nothing left for myself.

Motherhood taught me that but not in a pretty, “Pinterest-quote” way. It taught me in the messy, heartbreaking moments that often happen in the trenches of parenting. Motherhood revealed the gaps in my patience, where I lost my sense of self or the ghosts I hadn’t exorcised yet. It forced me to look at myself when I was at my worst and ask, “Can I still be nice to my kids? Can I still stay and get through it all?”

Marriage, too, has been a teacher but not always a gentle one. Love in your 40s is less exciting and can be boring but I’m speaking from my experience. It’s less about the big, impressive things and more about the small, boring things like showing up for each other. Or listening when you’re tired and don’t really care about the nitty-gritty of it. Or saying you’re sorry first. I used to think that being in love was like being high. But now I know better.

My art and writing have saved me more times than I can count. They gave shape to emotions I couldn’t name. They held me when I felt invisible. When I returned to writing poetry after years on hiatus, it felt like coming home to an old friend who never stopped waiting. I don’t write to impress anymore; I write to learn and understand. I want to tell the truth without worrying about how it sounds or how it looks. That’s the heart of my creative healing.

And this is my truth: I am a woman who is no longer afraid to feel everything.

I’ve learned to slow down and take my time. I’ve learned to walk away when something costs me my peace. I’ve learned to take a break without guilt. I’ve learned to feed myself what nourishes, not what numbs. I’ve learned that joy isn’t something you chase relentlessly. Joy is something you notice. You can find joy anywhere you look hard enough. In your child’s laughter. In the soft, fading light at 7.30pm. In the peaceful and dull parts of your life.

I’ve stopped needing everyone to like me. Not everyone will. And that’s okay. I am not for everyone. But I am for the people who value honesty over performance, presence over perfection, and depth over decorum.

Being a woman in your 40s means I carry both tenderness and steel in my bones. I know how to hold space and when to keep things to myself. I know how to tell the truth even when it hurts. I still make mistakes, of course. I still feel anxious most of the time, but I’m not as scared of being seen as imperfect. There is no pretending. What you see is what you get.

I don’t have it all figured out. But I know who I am now. And I like her more than I ever have.

Now That I Know

I don’t need fireworks.
I light my own sky
with the hush
of knowing I survived.
No more performance prayers.
No more bloodletting for love.
If I bend now, it’s not to please–
but to plant.
My thighs and belly are soft.
My words are sharp.
I’m no longer a girl
waiting to be chosen.
I have chosen myself,
my whole being–
transforming.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

Printable Affirmation for Moms | Our Bond Is Stronger Than Any Tide

Hand-drawn printable affirmation art of mother and child with sun, moon, and waves — emotional support for overwhelmed moms.

My kids are older now. I’ve long moved past the stage of yelling. Through years of learning and reflection, I’ve softened. I still scold my kids when needed, but never in the uncontrolled way I used to when I was younger and overwhelmed. That part of me has grown quieter. But the memory? It still lives somewhere inside me, not to shame me, but to remind me of how far I’ve come.

I remember one particular moment when I yelled at my daughter. This happened many years ago. Later that evening, I sat on the edge of the bed, silent. My hands remained tightly clenched. My throat still raw. And my heart? That was the worst part. It stung with guilt and regret I’d experienced too often. When I saw her small shoulders shake, I wanted to swallow every hurtful word and undo my mistakes. But, of course, that’s not how time works.

I remembered a post I wrote not long ago, This Is Not the Mother I Meant to Be. Those words came from the same place where this printable affirmation was born: a dull aching between failure and love, a desperate desire to do better, to be more patient, to un-yell the things we shouted when we were too exhausted or too raw.

This new art piece—Our Bond Is Stronger Than Any Tide—came from reading late-night Reddit posts written by exhausted mothers. Posts full of remorse and shameful confessions. Most of these women probably didn’t need guidance. They just needed someone to sit next to them and say, “I know. I was there too.”

In the illustration, I drew a mother and child surrounded by waves. Above them, the sun and moon coexist, as if to indicate that both light and shadow belong together. It was my way of acknowledging that we all have both. The love that rocks us, and the exhaustion that drags us down. There are days we sing, and there are days we snap. And still, our bond endures. It may be bruised and tender. But never broken.

I wanted this printable affirmation to serve as a comforting presence in someone’s home. Not in a Pinterest-perfect way, but in the way love still finds its way in—despite the irritation, despite the frustration.

We don’t talk enough about these moments. When we talk about motherhood, we often focus on the good things while ignoring the difficult ones that come with a lot of guilt. The moments when we despise ourselves for our tone, for slamming doors, for causing disconnection when all we wanted was to connect. We show up for our kids with snacks, schedules, and crafts, but we sometimes forget to show up for ourselves. We forget that we are human, too.

And this is what I want this piece to convey: You are not alone. You are not defined by your worst moment. You are a mother, and that is the most human thing of all.

If you’ve ever whispered apologies through the crack of a bedroom door…

If you’ve sobbed in the bathroom, wondering why your patience never seems to last…

If you’ve ever thought, “This is not the mother I was meant to be”…

Then I hope that this printable affirmation for moms speaks to you.

Because our bond with our children isn’t defined by one bad day. Or even a hundred. It’s shaped by the “rhythm of return”: the apologies, the “I love yous,” the bedtime cuddles even after chaos.

Our Bond Is Stronger Than Any Tide is now available in my Etsy shop, Olivia’s Atelier. You can print this motherhood affirmation for your desk, your mirror, your journal, or your wall. Let it be a companion and a reminder. A safe place to land when everything else feels hard.

Because you, mom, are still growing and changing. And love? It never stops trying.

Hand-Painted Affirmation Art, “Be Brave” | A Gentle Nudge Toward Your Own Courage

There are days when the world seems too loud. These are the days when the to-do lists keep getting longer, the dishes in the sink continue to accumulate, and the little, quiet voice within gets lost behind all we should be doing. I created Be Brave for such days, for myself, and perhaps for you as well.

It began because I wanted to release the stress that had been quietly mounting. I was feeling overwhelmed by the need to be everything to everyone. I remember sitting at my cluttered table late one night, the old fan humming in the background, the room dimly lit. Everyone else was asleep. Without hesitation, I let my pencils and brush move over the paper, filling it with flowing lines, swirls of color, and words that had been ringing inside me: be brave. Don’t hide. You are cherished. You are special. And as the drawing took shape, I felt lighter.

Be Brave is more than a fancy drawing; it’s a reminder. A peaceful companion who doesn’t expect anything from you. It exists to hold space for you to gather your courage. I wanted this piece to be a whisper rather than a shout. I wanted it to blend into your space, like sunshine streaming through a window or the soothing sound of a familiar tune. I wanted it to be an art that makes you pause, breathe, and be kind to yourself.

I think of this piece as a love letter to all women, not just mothers. To the weary mother who worries if she is doing enough. To the dreamer who keeps showing up for her work and her family, even on the hard days. And to any woman who, at quiet moments, doubts her worth or hides parts of herself, despite her incredible strength within. The words weaved within the artwork—courageous, treasured, lovable, don’t hide—are things I needed to hear myself. Words that I had long forgotten belonged to me too. And I know I’m not alone in this. Whether you’re raising children, pursuing a passion, caring for others, or simply trying to care for yourself, Be Brave was created to accompany you in those moments. It becomes a reminder that bravery isn’t loud or flashy. Often, it is in the mundane, steady ways that we keep going and choosing ourselves, even when it is difficult.

Every swirl, dot, and word in Be Brave was hand-painted. There’s something grounding about that process. It felt like I was putting together all of the pieces of myself that had been scattered. I used brilliant, deep colors: rich pinks to reflect tenderness and vulnerability, yellows for strength and resilience, and teals for emotional clarity and inner peace. Each stroke was a color-coded memory, pulled from places I’ve been and emotions I’ve carried. What about the doodling style? That’s my way of playing, allowing art to be flawed and human, just like us.

I’m creating this artwork as a printable wall art in my shop, Olivia’s Atelier. And because it’s a printable, Be Brave becomes whatever you need it to be. A reminder on your office wall, a present for a friend or for yourself, because sometimes we’re the ones who need reminding the most.

Have you been needing a gentle reminder today? If so, I’m glad you’re here. Maybe you’ve been carrying more than you let on, or maybe you just need someone to say: you’re doing okay. Perhaps you have felt invisible, worn out, or unsure. I hope Be Brave reminds you that you already do far more than you give yourself credit for. That you’re allowed to take up space, to rest, to dream, and to begin again. My drawing is a reminder to myself and to you that we don’t have to be perfect. All we need to do right at this moment is to be present and create small moments in our day that remind us that we’re still evolving and growing, and that is a beautiful, brave thing.

If this piece speaks to you, I invite you to check out Be Brave in my Etsy shop. It’s a heartfelt printable made from original hand-painted art, designed for mothers, dreamers, and every woman who needs a reminder of her strength.

Olivia’s Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

This Is Not the Mother I Meant to Be

I could name only one, but that wouldn’t be honest.

A lot of times in my early years as a mother haunted me quietly like background static in an otherwise happy song. The yelling, harsh words, and unwarranted anger all fell directly on little shoulders. I wrote a poem about it once. It’s titled This Is Not the Mother I Was Meant to Be. It is now available in my Etsy shop, which can be found here.

The poem is more than just a piece of text. This is my confession. A gentle, timid apology. A mirror I held up to my own face on days when I thought I had failed in the most important duty.

I meant to be gentler. I wanted to listen more. But there were times when I snapped, yelled when I should have breathed deeply, spanked when I should have paused, gave them junk food and called it dinner and said things I wish I could take back. Things like, “Be quiet. Enough. Just stop.” When all I truly wanted to say was, “I am exhausted, honey. I am trying. I love you so much, it hurts.”

Even now, the guilt weighs heavy. But, with time, I’ve realized that remorse isn’t supposed to tie me to the past. It is meant to teach me, then let me go.

As the kids grew older, I began having open conversations with them. I apologized. Not in grand speeches, but in quiet moments together: during car rides, at bedtime, or while having a meal. To my astonishment, they forgiven me. Completely, freely. As children frequently do when love triumphs over regret.

Their forgiveness was a balm. But can I forgive myself? This is still a work in progress.

What comforts me now is the realization that motherhood is not a destination. It is a process of growing. Every mistake I made was the result of a version of myself doing my best with what I knew. And I understand better now. I pause longer. I listen more carefully. I still make mistakes, but I’m more aware of them. I grow together with them.

So, if you’re a parent who’s been lugging guilt about like a hidden stone, maybe it’s time to let it go. Perhaps you can let the softer part of yourself speak. The one who continues to show up, try, and love with each broken, beautiful step.

Because this is not the mother I meant to be. But I’m still evolving to be a better version of myself.

✨ Visit Olivia’s Atelier for printables, reel templates, and planners made to support overwhelmed moms with gentle, soulful tools.
🕊️ Enjoy 50% off everything until June 2.

The Hour After Midnight | Why I Stayed Awake When I Should’ve Slept

For years, I stayed up too late.

It wasn’t because I was working or I had boundless energy or I was busy chasing my dreams. The main reason was that I needed to feel like a person.

It didn’t start as revenge bedtime procrastination. That phrase only found me later, when I stumbled across an article that put a name to my nightly rebellion. It felt like intense desperation. You could say it was a craving or a desperate fight for space.

When my children were small, the days blended together in a mist of needs. I remember those years vividly and if I’m honest, it makes me shudder, but not because I feel ashamed. My daily life was full of milk-stained shirts, sticky fingers, and toys scattered like confetti across every surface. I loved my kids fiercely. Still do. But in those days, I didn’t know where I ended and they began. I gave them my body, my attention, and everything. And somewhere in that giving, I began to disappear.

When the kids were finally asleep and when the house finally went quiet, and the dishes were done, I sat down. Just for a moment, just to breathe.

And that moment stretched beyond what I intended. I stayed up. Scrolling. Reading. Writing. Wandering through Facebook memories of the woman I used to be. Buying time I couldn’t afford, just to feel like I still existed.

I’d tell myself, “Just one more post. One more chapter. One more scroll.”

But truthfully? I was afraid that if I slept, I’d wake up and do it all over again. The endless giving, pouring out myself and forgetting.

So I kept stealing those hours after midnight.

And in the morning, of course, I paid the price.

I was more irritable. More short-tempered. More ashamed of the mother I was becoming.

The irony was painful: I stayed up to save myself, but it only made me more fragile the next day.

I never told anyone how much I resented the way my life had shrunk. How much I missed myself and how ashamed I felt for even feeling that way.

That was the case until I began writing about it.

That’s how The Hour After Midnight came to life. It began as fragments and eventually evolved into a complete poem. A piece of me, speaking directly to the woman I used to be. Perhaps I still am that woman, but these days I go to bed at 12 AM or earlier. As the kids grow, I enjoy my sleep more, and the resentment has disappeared.

This poem is about a mother who gives her all and suffers in silence. It’s about a woman who craves stillness to survive her crazy life of constant giving. She was just a tired soul who wanted to feel seen.

If that sounds like you, I hope this poem wraps around you like a quiet hug. It’s more than a printable; it’s a recognition and a mirror. A gentle piece of emotional support for any overstimulated mom who needs a reminder to be kind to your mind.

This digital poem makes a thoughtful and unique Mother’s Day gift, especially for the tired mom who needs to hear she’s still enough. It’s a beautiful affirmation of motherhood for those navigating revenge bedtime procrastination, mom life burnout, and those quiet moments where you whisper, “I am enough.”

Find The Hour After Midnight in my shop Olivia’s Atelier. You’ll receive a high-resolution poem print in multiple sizes, ready to frame or gift. I hope it brings you what it brought me—a pause, a breath, a beginning.

Note: Yes, I launched my Etsy shop recently to share my poems with the world. Right now, everything in the shop is 50% off until June 2, including our featured Mother’s Day Poem Printables. They are designed as heartfelt gifts or tender self-reminders to moms everywhere. Feel free to check it out.