This content originally appeared on DEV Community and was authored by Lena Hart
When I left art school, I didn’t expect the world to feel so heavy. People always talk about how freeing it is to walk away from something that isn’t right for you, how bold it is, how brave. But my experience didn’t look like that. Mine looked like packing my supplies into a cardboard box that kept collapsing on the sides, walking out of a building that had once felt like my entire life, and trying not to cry on the train ride home. I thought stepping away would make everything feel lighter. Instead, it felt like I had stepped off a cliff I didn’t know the height of. I kept telling myself I made the right decision, but my chest stayed tight for weeks, like I was bracing for a fall that never came.
When people asked why I left, I never knew how to answer in a way that felt honest. Saying I couldn’t handle the pressure made me feel weak. Saying I needed a break sounded like an excuse. Saying I didn’t know who I was anymore scared me the most, so I kept that part to myself. I told people I needed time. I told them I wanted to explore different paths. I told them I’d figure things out eventually. But inside, I felt like someone who had slipped out of a world that once defined them and now didn’t know where to stand.
It took me longer than I expected to realize that what bothered me most wasn’t leaving. It was the space that opened afterward. There are certain environments where you always have something to respond to—assignments, critiques, deadlines, expectations. Even when you’re drowning in them, they give shape to the days. When all of that disappeared, I felt suspended in some kind of drifting place where everything was possible and nothing felt real. The days stretched out in front of me like blank canvases I wasn’t ready to touch. Instead of freedom, I felt pressure in a different way—pressure to figure out who I was without the structure I had relied on for so long.
The first few weeks after leaving were a blur. I slept too much and then not enough. I tried sketching again, only to stare at the paper like it was judging me. I tried painting, but each brushstroke felt dull and forced. I tried going back to some of the habits I had before school, but none of them fit the same way anymore. I felt like a version of myself that didn’t fully exist yet. And because of that, I kept avoiding anything that made me think too hard about what I had walked away from.
Then one morning, without any plan or intention, I stepped outside earlier than usual. The air felt cool against my arms, and the world around me looked softer than I remembered. I breathed in slowly and felt something in me loosen. It wasn’t a dramatic shift, but it was enough to make me take a few more steps down the block. I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I didn’t rush. I let myself walk just to walk, not to escape anything or to prove anything. It surprised me how unusual that felt. I had spent so long rushing from one expectation to another that I forgot what it was like to move without a purpose.
The street was mostly empty except for a single delivery truck rumbling in the distance. I watched the way the early light stretched across the pavement, noticed how the color changed near the edges, how the shadows of tree branches swayed across the road. These details weren’t special on their own, but they felt different because I was seeing them instead of walking past them. For the first time in months, I felt a flutter of something I hadn’t felt in a long time—room to breathe.
I kept doing that every morning. Not because I planned to, but because my body seemed to pull me outside before my mind had a chance to protest. I walked the same few blocks at a slow pace, noticing details I never bothered to look at before. The peeling paint on a neighbor’s mailbox. The crack near the curb shaped like a bent arrow. The soft hum of traffic three streets away. These small moments, insignificant as they were, helped me feel anchored. They told me that life didn’t need to feel like a test I was failing. It could be simple. It could be steady. It could be something I eased into instead of fought against.
One morning, I passed by an older apartment building with a fire escape that zigzagged down the side. The metal looked weathered, almost rusted in places, but the pattern of light falling across it made it look like a sculpture—imperfect, tired, but still standing. I stopped and stared at it longer than I meant to, and something about the scene made me feel seen. I felt like that fire escape—worn in places, a little unsteady, but still functional, still useful, still part of something. It was the first time in months that I felt connected to anything outside myself, and it startled me how much that mattered.
As spring drifted in, my walks grew longer. I ventured down different streets, crossed into neighborhoods I didn’t usually visit, and found myself drawn to small forgotten places. A small alley covered in chipped murals. A patch of grass behind an auto shop where someone had left an old chair. A corner where wildflowers pushed their way up through cracks in the concrete. These little discoveries didn’t fix my life, but they helped me understand something I had missed: meaning doesn’t always come from achievement. Sometimes it comes from noticing.
I started bringing that idea into the rest of my days without realizing it. When I made breakfast, I paid attention to how the smell of toast filled the kitchen. When I washed dishes, I noticed the warm water running over my hands. When I sat down to draw, I didn’t force myself to make something impressive. I let myself make small marks, patterns, scribbles—anything that felt natural. And slowly, I started feeling less like someone who failed and more like someone who was in the middle of figuring things out.
There was a particular afternoon when I sat at my desk with a blank sketchbook and felt the usual pressure rising in my chest. Instead of closing it, I pressed the pencil down and drew a single line. Then another. Then a few more. They weren’t good lines. They weren’t bad lines either. They were just lines. And for the first time since leaving school, that felt okay. I didn’t need to impress anyone. I didn’t need to chase anyone’s approval. I needed to start somewhere, and a simple line was enough.
One evening, after a long walk that carried me farther from home than usual, I found myself sitting on a low stone wall near the edge of a park. The sun was setting, and the sky looked warm and layered, like a painting that hadn’t been blended yet. I watched the colors shift, each one drifting into the next without rushing. It made me think about how long I had spent trying to force myself into something I wasn’t ready for. It made me think about how much more gentle I needed to be with myself. I didn’t have all the answers, but I realized that maybe I didn’t need them yet.
The more I let myself slow down, the more I started to understand that life didn’t stop when I left art school. It simply changed shape. And instead of forcing myself to fit the old mold, I needed to learn the shape of the life that was unfolding now. I needed to let myself be a person who was starting over, who didn’t need to climb an impossible ladder right away, who didn’t need to rush back into the world with a grand plan. Starting small was enough.
One afternoon, I came across a resource that reminded me how helpful it can be to explore the gentle beginnings that help people shift directions. If you ever feel like taking a look at something that nudged me toward moving more gently through my own life, you can visit this website here.
It isn’t about following someone else’s map. Sometimes seeing where someone else found steadiness helps you notice what’s possible for you too.
Now, months after stepping away from the world that once defined me, I’m still figuring things out, but I’m not scared of the blank spaces anymore. I walk slowly in the mornings. I draw without judging myself. I let myself rest when I need to. I listen to the small parts of the world around me. And even though I don’t know where this path will lead yet, I finally feel like I’m standing on solid ground. Not because everything is perfect, but because I’m learning to live at a pace that lets me breathe, notice, and begin again—one honest moment at a time.
This content originally appeared on DEV Community and was authored by Lena Hart
Lena Hart | Sciencx (2025-11-24T19:03:09+00:00) The Days I Tried to Start Over in a Less Demanding Way. Retrieved from https://www.scien.cx/2025/11/24/the-days-i-tried-to-start-over-in-a-less-demanding-way/
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