The Painting I Almost Threw Away
On grief, obedience, and learning to trust the voice inside
I started painting because a friend asked me a question.
It was January 2019. I had just been approached about potentially running for State Representative. Politics has always lived close to me. Justice is the lens through which I see the world. Many people assumed that one day I would run.
I met my friend Brian Sleet at a small neighborhood bar on 16th Street. He asked me something that seemed simple.
“If you get this role, how are you going to manage stress?”
I laughed. I said basketball or maybe I might get into art since I used to draw as a kid.
Maybe I would try painting.
He smiled and said, “You’re too old to hoop. Try art.”
The next day Brian passed away. It was the day before his birthday.
Grief rearranges you.
It makes everything louder and quieter at the same time. The noise of the world fades. The voice inside gets clearer.
That night I went home and pulled canvases out of the back of my house. I had bought them a year earlier. Never touched them. We all have something like that. A dream we funded but never fed.
The first painting I made was awful. Truly bad. I still have it. But something inside of me felt steadier.
So I kept going.
The Canvas I Was Going to Trash
About a year later, my mother was in a 14 hour surgery at Mayo Clinic. Multiple surgical teams. It was serious. I was sitting in that waiting space that feels like suspended air.
While I waited, I painted a background. Nothing special. Just practice. I had been studying technique on YouTube during COVID. Watching other artists. Experimenting with mediums. Sketching every day again.
The call came. She was going to be ok.
I looked at the canvas and thought, this was just practice. I should throw it away.
And I heard clearly in my spirit, “Don’t throw that away. Ruby Bridges.”
It was not loud. It was not theatrical. It was clear.
I cannot explain why Ruby Bridges. I just saw her. I saw the Norman Rockwell image that so many of us have internalized. The slur on the wall. The way our history is often framed through hostility.
I never loved that framing. I did not want to paint trauma. I wanted to paint dignity.
So I reimagined her in a graffiti style. I wrote the word Queen next to her name.
I posted it. Went to sleep.
The next morning it had 40,000 likes.
People were asking where they could buy it. I had no idea how to sell art. I was running a nonprofit. I was not thinking about prints or distribution or collectors.
But I listened again.
Call your friends.
Learn.
Figure it out.
I did.
That 16X 20 original has now been displayed across the country and around the world. It has been collected by major institutions. It sits in nine countries across four continents. A judge ordered a 60 X 44 version for her courtroom.
I almost threw it away.
The Discipline of Listening
Here is what I have learned.
The voice inside of you does not compete with the noise outside of you. It waits.
It waits for grief to quiet you.
It waits for courage to rise.
It waits for obedience.
We live in a world of constant commentary. Social media tells you what to build. The news tells you what to fear. Algorithms tell you what will perform.
But the voice inside rarely screams. It whispers.
It says paint that.
Call them back.
Start the thing.
Apply for the grant.
Send the email.
Forgive.
Rest.
Go again.
The discipline is not talent. The discipline is listening
.
There are moments in my life when I did not listen. And I can trace the regret back to that hesitation. That second-guessing. That need for external validation.
But the painting taught me something different.
Trust first.
Understand later.
Belief in a Doomscrolling Era
This current moment can make you feel like we are unraveling.
I lead Chicago Scholars. I sit with young people who feel unseen. I work in education at a time when even access to truth feels debated.
Every day you can find a reason to be cynical.
That is why I painted The Power of Belief.
Belief is not blind optimism. It is defiant hope.
It is the decision to soar when gravity feels heavy.
It is painting children flying kites when headlines scream collapse.
It is investing in students when policy shifts threaten equity.
It is listening to the quiet voice instead of the loud crowd.
The Cost of Ignoring Yourself
There is a version of my life where I ignored that nudge.
Where I threw the canvas away.
Where I dismissed the whisper as imagination.
Where I decided I was too busy.
That version of my life is smaller.
Not because of money. Not because of recognition. But because it would have been a betrayal of something sacred.
You do not always get a second nudge.
Sometimes the whisper only comes once.
Obedience Before Outcome
When I heard “Ruby Bridges,” I had no idea what would happen next. There was no vision board. No monetization strategy. No global plan.
There was only obedience.
Paint it.
Post it.
See what happens.
The world rewards polish. But it is built on obedience.
Every expansion of my life has started that way. A nudge. A step. A risk. A yes before certainty.
If you are holding a canvas you almost threw away, I hope this reaches you.
That idea you keep revisiting.
That business you half started.
That art you are scared to share.
That application sitting in drafts.
The voice inside of you is not random. It is informed by your lived experience, your faith, your training, your ancestors, your intuition.
Trust it.
Not everything will go viral.
But everything you ignore will cost you something.
Do not throw it away.
Tell me in the comments:
What is the whisper you have been postponing?