Yes. I Am.

Dear friend,

Each of us carries more than one identity: wife, mom, friend, athlete, artist, musician. I know, for instance, that I am a writer as well as an artist. I know that I was a daughter — and am not any longer, though I suspect that identity never really goes away.

But here is something I've learned about every one of them, and about the artist in particular: there comes a point when you have to decide. Not feel it, not wait for permission — decide. The identity has to come first, or none of the actions ever feel authentic, and imposter syndrome moves in like a tenant who knows your locks.

May I tell you about the moment I embraced mine?

This spring, David and I found ourselves in the hills of Tennessee with a handful of good friends and several handfuls of friends we hadn't met yet. We had gathered to think, process life, learn, and encourage one another — and the setting was designed to beguile us into telling our stories: a farm with fresh vegetables, honey bees, music, and magical spaces.

On the afternoon of the last day, we all found paint sets and notebooks in our rooms, with instructions to create something inspired by the farm. I was excited — an art contest is right up my alley. While David rested, I began to draw and paint. My subject, unbelievably, was inspired by the couch in our room: a beautiful botanical print in deep greens. The result was a garden tumbling against emerald — all the way down to the collaged bumble bee.

I won the contest.

Later that evening, a group of friends I consider mentors gathered around David and me, and one of the sweetest, kindest men I know asked: "Marla, I didn't know you are an artist. Are you an artist?"

Everything stopped. And I heard the whisper that told me how I answered would determine everything — whether I embraced my calling, or spent the rest of my life imagining what could have been. It was my choice.

"Yes. I am."

Here's what I believe about that moment: I didn't invent the identity by claiming it. It was given — woven in from my earliest days, waiting patiently for my yes. Scripture says we are His workmanship, created for good works prepared beforehand for us to walk in. The work was waiting for the walking.

Whatever was woven into you — the teaching, the building, the mothering, the mending, the making — it finds its fruition the same way. You embrace it. Then you take one concrete step. The steps don't create the identity; they answer it.

These letters, once a month, are some of my steps. I'm so glad you're here for them.

With light and gratitude, from the dock,
Marla

P.S. — That contest painting is called Tennessee Farm Blooms, and it lives in the shop now, bumble bee and all. Some yeses you get to hang on the wall.