Closed for renovation

Being closed for renovation doesn’t mean disappearing — it means learning how to carry what we’ve lost.

This heart was my first one. And today, I dedicate it to anyone who has had to both shut down and carry on at the same time.

I drew it on the page of a book by Julia Cameron, The Right to Write. I was in a hotel room in Fort Hood, covering troops who were about to go to war. At the same time, my own marriage was ending—though I wasn’t ready to accept it or announce it to anyone.

I come back to it often.

Sometimes it becomes my living quarters, a place I stay inside for a while. Other times, I just walk in and out as needed. I’ve been doing that frequently these past few months.

On January 12, my cameraman and one of my closest friends, Edwing Lopez, passed away from cancer. We ran together for years. He read every chapter of this project first. He believed in it deeply and was fully invested from the beginning. Losing him has left a quiet, constant loneliness—the kind that doesn’t shout. It just stays.

That loss came after I had to let go of my dogs in December. Troy and Uma weren’t just pets. They were my best friends. My sleeping companions. My family. They were by my side through most of my painting and throughout the writing of the book. They were witnesses to the work, and to me.

And still, I carried on.

I’m all in on this project because all three of them would have wanted me to be. They were part of it. Troy and Uma were there through the making. Edwing was there through the words—every chapter, every draft.

I miss them. They were my rocks. But I can’t stay closed.

So, I go in and out of this heart—for peace, for solitude, to regain strength. Sometimes I rest there. Sometimes I step back into the world carrying what they gave me.

I offer this image as a reminder that we can hurt and be happy at the same time. That we can break down and rebuild within the same season. That being closed for renovation doesn’t mean absence or forgetting—only that we are learning how to live in honor of their memory.

If this season feels familiar, I hope this heart brings you solace.