Day 22: The Courage to Be Seen

May Mental Health Month Series

There was a time when I felt invisible. After my stroke, my world changed overnight, but the world outside me kept moving. Fast. Loud. Unforgiving. I was trying to relearn how to move through space, how to trust my brain again, how to find any part of the woman I had once been. Somewhere in that fog, I started creating not to be seen, but to survive.

And then something shifted. Creating was no longer just for me. I realized that in my ink lines, in the bold or gentle colors of my brush, there were parts of me that still had something to say. Something worth saying. And maybe, just maybe, something worth sharing.

But sharing can be terrifying, similar to public speaking. You’re vulnerable, out in the open.

In the early months after my stroke, I didn't personally know anyone who had survived one, a stroke, and was still living a full life. I was scared of the unknown, of the changes, of what might never come back. I sought out connection and joined online support groups for stroke survivors, hoping to find some glimmer of guidance or hope. Someone somewhere to “share” a glimmer of guidance or hope. But those groups, while well-intentioned, were deeply heavy. Many members were clinically depressed or suicidal. And though my heart broke for them, it made me feel even more alone and scared. I needed light. I needed hope. I needed something that made me feel like me again, alive. I needed someone to say, “you're going to be ok.”

That peace of mind I needed grew within me while painting.

Painting became my refuge, my friend on both the good days and the bad. It didn’t ask for explanations. It didn’t judge. It simply offered me colors, textures and freedom when the world felt gray, and movement when my body was unsure. It gave me a language for my fear, my grief, and eventually, my joy.

As someone who spent years listening to others, holding their stories in therapy rooms, I understood the intimacy of being witnessed, seen and heard. Yet when it came to my own story, I hesitated. I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want to be reduced to my stroke. I didn’t want to be boxed into a stereotype of “overcoming adversity.” I simply wanted to be me; messy, layered, imperfect, and real in the midst of chaos.

Still, I shared, hesitantly. First with close family and friends through text messages. Then with an audience of strangers who became supporters. With each painting, blog post, or social media caption, I peeled back a layer of fear and replaced it with truth.

And I was seen.

Not in a spotlight way, but in the gentle gaze of someone whispering, “Me too.”

Visibility, for someone who has been through trauma or chronic illness, is not about being loud. It’s about being brave. It’s about showing up in your wholeness, even when wholeness looks like broken pieces stitched together with hope and acrylic paint.

There is a quiet defiance in saying: “This is me. This is my truth. And I believe it belongs in the world.” MJB

Sometimes, your art speaks when your voice trembles. Sometimes, your writing holds you steady when everything else feels uncertain. And sometimes, being seen is not about the number of eyes watching, but about your own eyes meeting yourself without shame.

I’m still learning how to live there, in that space of bold visibility and soft vulnerability. But I know this:

“Every time I share my truth, I build a bridge to someone else’s heart.”

Michelle Joy Brown

A Gentle Assignment:

Think of one small truth you’ve been afraid to share.

It doesn’t have to be posted online or painted big. Just write it down. Whisper it aloud.

Give it space in your world.

Then ask yourself:

What might shift if I let myself be seen, even just a little more?

The attached artwork, Emerging From Silence, hold my early strokes: hesitant, searching, vulnerable. But alive.

“I didn’t find my voice again through words. I found it in color, texture, and motion. The brush didn’t just help me paint—it helped me speak.” MJB

© 2025 Michelle Joy Brown. All rights reserved.

This post is part of Blossoming Art From The Heart—a 31-day series for National Mental Health Month.

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© 2025 Michelle Joy Brown. All rights reserved.

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