“From Flame to Rise: The Story of Her Becoming”

By Monicartist

There are paintings that come from imagination — and then there are those that come from survival.

Both Flame of Her and Rise of Her were born during seasons when I didn’t think I had much left to give.

I remember the period leading up to Flame of Her. I was exhausted — not just physically, but emotionally. My body was in pain, my mind was scattered, and I felt like I was carrying invisible weight that no one could see. I had already left behind my career in engineering, a life that had once given me identity and direction but had slowly stripped me of both. I thought that walking away would bring relief — but instead, it left me in silence.

The kind of silence that echoes.

One morning, I sat in my studio, not because I felt inspired, but because I didn’t know what else to do. The sunlight hit the edge of a half-finished canvas, and I remember thinking how strange it was — that even in my emptiness, the light still found me. That was the beginning of Flame of Her.

It wasn’t planned. It just… happened. Brushstrokes, almost like breaths — one after another, until the peony began to take form. At first, I didn’t even see it as a flower. It was energy, movement, emotion. The reds and pinks carried something alive — a quiet burn that refused to fade, no matter how fragile it felt.

Flame of Her became the mirror I didn’t know I needed. It held the parts of me that had endured — the woman who had fallen apart yet somehow kept creating, the one who still believed beauty could exist after pain. It reminded me that softness isn’t weakness; it’s the courage to stay open in a world that tries to harden you.

But healing isn’t linear. Even after Flame of Her was finished, I still had nights of doubt — days when I’d stare at it and think, “Maybe that fire isn’t me anymore.” Then came Rise of Her.

It began months later, when I was finally starting to feel a shift — like I was no longer fighting my pain, but learning to walk alongside it. I remember mixing the colours: deep crimson, magenta, a touch of warmth that felt new. I wasn’t the same person who painted Flame of Her. I was softer, but also stronger — more accepting of who I had become.

Rise of Her isn’t about struggle; it’s about becoming. It’s about the quiet strength that grows from surviving yourself. It’s the moment you realise you don’t have to prove your resilience — you just live it. The petals rise upward, open and unapologetic, as if saying, “I am no longer hiding.”

Together, Flame of Her and Rise of Her tell a story of rebirth. One carries the pain and the spark — the other carries the awakening and the light. They are parts of the same woman: one remembering her fire, the other standing fully in it.

Sometimes I still look at them side by side in my studio and think — this is what healing looks like. Not perfect, not polished, but real. Two paintings that began as therapy have become my story in colour — a story of falling, burning, rising, and becoming whole again.

If Flame of Her was the moment I remembered I had a flame, then Rise of Her is the moment I realised I had wings.

When I look at these two paintings now, I see more than just colour and form — I see chapters of becoming. Flame of Her was the beginning of my healing; Rise of Her was the moment I realised healing doesn’t mean going back to who you were — it means growing into who you were meant to be.

Both pieces are a reminder that pain doesn’t erase beauty — it deepens it. That even when life burns everything down, something luminous can still bloom from the ashes. I think that’s what art really is: a conversation between our brokenness and our becoming.

Through my work, I hope others can see a reflection of their own story — the part that’s still tender, still learning to rise, still remembering its own flame. Because no matter how lost we feel, the truth is simple and eternal:

There is always light waiting within you — quiet, patient, ready to rise again.