Aren’t we all born as blank canvases?
Well… yes and no.
Sure, we arrive with a genetic blueprint—our DNA, our lineage, the ancestral whispers embedded in our cells. But that’s just the underpainting. The real masterpiece begins when life picks up the brush.
From the moment we take our first breath, the world starts to paint on us. Parents, siblings, teachers, friends, neighbors, even the grumpy uncle who always complains about the Wi-Fi—each one adds a stroke. Some are bold and bright, others subtle and shadowy. And then there are those invisible brushstrokes—the words of encouragement, the gentle nudges, the “You’ve got this!” whispered into our ears during moments of doubt. These become our inner monologue, our guiding principles, our emotional GPS.
Ever wondered why some people seem to carry calm like a second skin, while others are like soda cans shaken one too many times? Is it temperament? Or is it the echo of voices they’ve heard growing up—voices that either lifted them or let them down?
Let’s be honest. Parenting is a wild, beautiful, chaotic art form. One moment you’re calmly explaining why licking the floor is not a great idea, and the next you’re threatening to cancel birthday parties, confiscate screen time, or call in the big guns—“I’ll tell your father!”
It’s a cycle. A dance. A crescendo of escalating tones:
“That’s not nice.”
“Please don’t do that.”
“I said no.”
“I’m serious now.”
“Okay, that’s it!”
And then… we reset. Back to square one. Can we break this cycle? Probably not. Did our parents? Nope. Do we love them any less for it? Absolutely not.
Because here’s the thing—every parent, whether human or hedgehog, wants the best for their offspring. Even a lioness teaches her cubs to hunt, not just to survive, but to thrive. And in our human jungle, we try to do the same—teach kindness, empathy, resilience, manners, and the art of saying “thank you” without rolling our eyes.
But the window is short. Blink, and they’re off to school. Blink again, and they’re taller than you, borrowing your charger and questioning your music taste. During this fleeting time, the canvas absorbs everything—not just the good habits, but the quirks, the sarcasm, the eye-rolls, the street smarts. It’s all part of the painting.
And what a painting it becomes.
Some canvases end up in boardrooms, others in classrooms, hospitals, studios, or tucked away in cozy homes. Some are displayed proudly in galleries of success, while others wait patiently in storerooms of potential. Some are abstract, some hyper-realistic. Some are layered with experience, others splashed with spontaneity. There are acrylics that withstand storms, and watercolors that fade but never lose their charm.
And just like art, we are open to interpretation:
Your spouse might have to tilt their head to understand you.
Your siblings might see a completely different picture.
Strangers might admire your bold strokes or question your color choices.
But every canvas tells a story.
Yes, there will be patches—mistakes covered up, regrets painted over. The varnish might wear thin with age, but the essence remains. A life lived, a journey painted, a soul expressed.
So, whether you’re a minimalist sketch or a riot of colors, remember this:
You are art.
You are evolving.
You are a canvas in progress.
And someday, somewhere, someone will look at your painting and say, “Wow. That’s a masterpiece.”
