When a Paint Party Becomes a Holding Space

There are moments when I understand this work in my bones — not because of joy, but because of grief.

Years ago, I lost my best friend. He told me it was “the end of the road for him,” but I didn’t know that day would be the last time I’d see him. Within a week, he was gone. I was deep in grief — the kind that settles into your body and makes even the smallest tasks feel impossible.

I had a paint party scheduled for the day after he was buried.

I almost didn’t go. I remember lying across the table before anyone arrived, my body heavy, unsure if I could stand up and welcome people in. I didn’t want to disappear — I just wanted to rest. To be still. To be held by something larger than my own thoughts.

And yet, I stayed.

I laid out the paint. I set up the space. I showed up. And that room — that simple act of gathering and creating — became a place that held me when I couldn’t hold myself.

The paint party didn’t take the grief away. It didn’t make anything better in a neat or tidy way. But it gave me a place to breathe. A place where I could exist without explaining myself. A place where my hands could move even when my heart felt frozen.

That experience lives quietly underneath everything I do now.

Because sometimes paint parties aren’t about celebration. Sometimes they’re about companionship. About sitting side by side. About letting color and presence do what words can’t.

If you or someone you love is moving through a hard season, you don’t need to wait until things feel lighter to gather. You don’t need a special reason. You’re allowed to create simply because being together feels safer than being alone.

Paint parties can be joyful. They can be playful.
And sometimes, they can simply be a holding space.

You’re welcome here — exactly as you are.