How I Came to Love Soft Pastels

Soft Pastels as Rebellion

I have been artistic my whole life. But if you asked my family, they’d probably just shrug. Art, creativity, self-expression—none of it was ever really encouraged, let alone celebrated. In fact, I don’t think I ever felt safe pursuing it at all.

One of my earliest memories of making art was when I was about five years old, coloring at the table with my parents and grandparents. I was just doing my thing, lost in the moment, when my grandfather got annoyed because I was coloring outside the lines. And the worst part? No one stood up for me. No “who cares, she’s five” or “it’s just crayons.” Just silence. I stopped coloring. Maybe I should have known then that art, for me, would always come with strings attached.

The Art of Criticism (and Not the Helpful Kind)

I bounced around a lot of creative pursuits over the years—drawing, acrylics, watercolor, photography, even playing the trombone. And with each new thing I tried, the same pattern emerged: excitement, curiosity, and then… the gut punch.

“You know, I could do that—probably better.”

That was my mother’s signature move. No encouragement, constructive feedback, and a casual dismissal. It was devastating. Every single time, I internalized it. I stopped drawing. I packed up the paints. I put down the camera. I quit. Because when you’re constantly told you’re not enough, you start to believe it.

And yet, here I am.

Finding My Medium—And My Freedom

A year after I went no contact with my family, I stumbled upon soft pastels. It wasn’t some grand artistic revelation—I found them on YouTube. Karen Margulis. I could watch her paint every single day. Something about the way she layered colors, how effortlessly she brought landscapes to life—it hooked me.

At first, I didn’t even think pastels were an option for me. Have you seen how expensive they are? But one day, Amazon had a fairly comprehensive set for $100. I couldn’t believe it. I bought them immediately, and when they arrived, I was enchanted. The endless colors, the way they felt on paper, the way my hands got covered in pigment, the ritual of washing up afterward—it was mesmerizing.

And the best part?

No one was there to tell me I wasn’t good enough.

Soft Pastels Saved Me

I started working with pastels at a time when everything felt uncertain. I was having many panic attacks a day. All while I was dealing with severe reactions to medications, one of which landed me in the hospital for a while. My nervous system was shot, my body and mind were exhausted, and I felt like I was hanging on by a thread.

Then came soft pastels.

I was worried at first—so much sensory input, so much potential for overwhelm. But instead, pastels became my grounding force. The scratchy sound of pigment against paper, the way my hands blended colors like magic—it was the perfect mix of curiosity and calm. A mindfulness practice without the pressure of sitting still.

My Quiet Rebellion

For the first time in my life, I have a creative outlet that isn’t criticized, dismissed, or picked apart. Soft pastels are mine.

It’s funny—I never thought of it as a secret, but in a way, it is. My parents don’t even know I’m an artist again. And honestly? That feels like freedom. It means I get to create without expectation, without comparison. It means I am finally, fully living for myself.

Peace, in Layers of Color

If you had asked me years ago what peace looked like, I wouldn’t have had an answer. But now? Now I know.

Peace looks like slowing down.

It’s quiet. It’s steady. It’s a slow, patient process—just like healing, just like baking, just like homeschooling my daughter. Just like soft pastels.

Layer by layer, color by color, I am building something new. Something mine.

And no one gets to take that away from me.