Relearning How to Shine

The Journey of Rediscovery Series - Post 5

by Valerie L Valentine

When the Light Faded

There was a time when my world was full of color — not just the paint-on-canvas kind, but the kind that glows quietly from within. It shimmered in laughter, creativity, and the energy of possibility. But somewhere between lesson plans, permission slips, and late-night grading sessions, I stopped noticing those colors.

Life became practical. Predictable. Necessary.

Each day was filled with helping others shine — students, children, coworkers — and in the process, I forgot how to tend my own light. I don’t think it went out completely; it just grew faint, waiting patiently under layers of responsibility and exhaustion.

At my desk in 2010, creating a classroom presentation for my high school seniors.

The truth is, I didn’t even realize it was missing until the quiet came. After retirement. After the chaos. After the roles that once defined me began to dissolve.

That’s when the silence and my husband asked me a question I couldn’t ignore:

“When was the last time you did something purely for joy?”

When the Spark Returned

The answer came unexpectedly — in the form of color.

It started small. A brush of acrylic or oil paints on a canvas. A swirl of fluid acrylics or watercolors.  Decorated pumpkins. Shaping of polymer clays. Crafting with my Cricut machine. My first digital art class using Procreate. A swirl of turquoise and gold on my iPad screen. A single sketch in Procreate. At first, I told myself it was just for fun, something to fill time. But the more I created, the more I felt that familiar hum — that wordless connection between thought and creation, where hours slip by unnoticed.

I had forgotten how much peace there is in making.

Each brushstroke pulled me closer to myself — not the teacher, not the mother, not the multitasker — but the girl who once loved color for color’s sake. The one who saw stories in clouds and magic in mistakes.

This is the first oil painting I did after my dad passed away. He was a pilot and a poet. The poem in the upper right is one that he wrote many years ago.

And though it was only experimenting at first, it was also a tiny sunrise — proof that my light wasn’t gone, only waiting to be noticed again.

The Unlearning

But before I could truly shine again, I had to unlearn a few things.

I had to let go of perfection — that lifelong habit of measuring worth by outcomes. I had to silence the voice that whispered, “You should be doing something useful.” I had to forgive myself for the years I spent dimming my light for the comfort of others.

And I had to unlearn guilt. 

The guilt of joy. 

The guilt of slowing down. 

The guilt of creating something beautiful simply because it makes me happy.

That might have been the hardest part — understanding that joy isn’t selfish. It’s sacred.

“I had to remember that art isn’t indulgence. It’s how my soul breathes.”

Relearning the Light

Now, I see light differently.

It’s not the steady, spotlight kind that demands attention. It’s gentler — flickering through the cracks, honest and unpolished. I’ve learned that the places I once thought were broken are actually where the light gets in, and also where it shines out.

These days, my art is less about achieving perfection and more about honoring process — the rhythm of brush and breath, the whisper of memory turned into color.

I had just gotten my iPad and wanted to see what I could do. This is my very first digital painting. November 2019.

My butterflies have become more than subjects; they’re metaphors. Symbols of transformation. Of shedding skins and finding flight again.

I’ve stopped apologizing for taking up creative space. I’ve stopped waiting for permission to feel alive.

And I’ve realized that shining doesn’t mean returning to who I was before — it means embracing who I’ve become.

The Invitation

Maybe you know what it feels like — to set your dreams aside, to go dim for a while because life demanded it.

If you do, then I want to tell you something that took me decades to learn: Your light is still there. It never leaves you. It just waits — patient as dawn — for you to remember.

So, start small. Pick up a brush. Write a line. Step into sunlight. Let the spark return in its own time, in its own way.

You don’t have to start over.

 You just have to relearn how to shine.

Reflections & Resources

Reflection: 

When was the last time you did something purely for joy — not for productivity or praise, but simply because it made you feel alive?

Artist’s Notes: 

This post is the final installment in my The Journey of Rediscovery Series.  The first piece was about rediscovery — this one is about reclamation. The butterflies that appear in my blog banner are more than decoration; they’re my reminder that transformation is not a one-time event, but a lifelong dance between loss and light.

Further Reading / Inspiration:

• The Gifts of Imperfection — Brené Brown

• Women Who Run With the Wolves — Clarissa Pinkola Estés

• Big Magic — Elizabeth Gilbert

• My posts: The Story of a Second-Best Career, Tempering My Fire, Square Peg, Round Hole: On Not Fitting In, and What Are You?