How did I start drawing?

It’s a question I’m often asked, and the answer takes me back to a time before my treatment for Stage 3 cervical cancer. I was a photographer and filmmaker—drawing had never been part of my creative process, aside from the occasional doodle in a notebook. But everything shifted when I was preparing for a seven-day brachytherapy radiation treatment at Institut Marie Curie in Paris. I knew I would be confined to a bed for continuous radiation, and I needed more than just physical items to bring with me—I needed tools that would help me mentally navigate the ordeal.

The idea of being "pinned down" felt suffocating, but I wanted to turn it into an opportunity for expression. I carefully curated a list of items that would keep me occupied and help me process the experience through creativity. Drawing, as it turned out, was one of the first things I thought of.

Here’s what I packed:

• Books

• Ink for drawing

• Sennelier oil pastels

• Notebook for writing

• DVDs (comedies)

• FIMO (colorful plasticine)

• Crocheting supplies

• Camera

• Blog to update daily

• Paint and canvas

• White Italian clay (small batches)

• Sticky tape, glue, scissors

• Sound therapy machine

My bag for the hospital was also filled with a folder of all the cards and messages loved ones had sent me, as well as all the items mentioned above. These creative materials became more than just items—they were lifelines. Each of them, in their own way, helped me reclaim some control over my body and mind, and drawing, in particular, became a way for me to transform my inner world into something tangible.

The act of creating during that time, no matter how small or imperfect, became an essential part of my healing. And in that hospital bed, I began to draw for the first time. It wasn’t just about surviving the treatment—it was about finding a way to express the complexities of my experience. Drawing gave me a voice when words failed. It allowed me to connect with a part of myself I hadn’t known before—a part that still needed to be seen, even in the midst of pain and uncertainty.

Radiation Begins

There was a strange dance that unfolded over the next seven days—a rhythm dictated by the relentless pulse of the radiation machine. Every hour, without fail, the machine would roar to life, delivering its charge 24 hours a day. I lay there, pinned down, as the machine worked tirelessly to destroy the cancerous cells within me. Yet, while parts of me were being "cooked" and destroyed, I felt a connection to something deeper. I clung to the mantras I silently chanted, feeling the universal life-force flow through me. It was as though, in the midst of cellular destruction, I was simultaneously being held by a force larger than myself, keeping me grounded, keeping me alive, even as parts of me died.

This contradiction—of life and death intertwined—was disorienting. The physical reality was undeniable: my body was breaking down, and my cells attacked hour by hour, minute by minute. I felt trapped, imprisoned in a position that I couldn’t escape. The radiation schedule was brutal—25 minutes of radiation, followed by the desperate attempt to catch fleeting moments of sleep before the machine would start again. My back ached constantly from being unable to move, and the desire to simply stand and stretch became an obsession. The inability to act on this need only deepened the sense of captivity. I was pinned down, both literally and metaphorically.

Words, at that moment, were useless. How could they capture the violence of what was happening to me? The pain, the intensity, the inescapable sensation of being torn apart from the inside—it was beyond articulation. The tools I had brought to pass the time—books, clay, crocheting—became meaningless in the face of this all-consuming experience. The thought of using them felt absurd, irrelevant. But the oil pastels… they were different.

The oil pastels allowed me to access something beyond words. There, in that sterile, confined space, their vivid colors became my lifeline. Drawing wasn’t just a distraction; it was survival. I could take those pastels and scratch at the paper, releasing through lines and color the unspeakable terror I was enduring. The act of drawing was raw, almost primal. It wasn’t about creating something beautiful; it was about expressing the inexpressible, making visible the emotions that words could never convey.

Every stroke of pastel across the paper felt like a release. Each line, each curve, mirrored the internal chaos, the pain, the fear, the strange dance between destruction and life. The colors—bold and aggressive—became a reflection of what was happening inside me. I didn’t have to explain or rationalize; I simply let the pastels do the talking. This act of creation, of making something tangible out of my suffering, became a way to cope with the violence I was experiencing. In the midst of radiation, in the moments where I could not move, drawing allowed me to escape in a way nothing else could.

In those seven days, I discovered a new language—one born from necessity, from the depths of my struggle. The colors of the oil pastels helped me access the unspeakable, transforming the horror of radiation into something I could see, something I could control, even if just for a moment. It was not about art or beauty. It was about survival.

Staying Sane

During radiation, I needed to stay sane. I knew that the relentless grind of treatment could push me over the edge, could make me lose my grip on reality if I didn’t find a way to ground myself. I focused on chanting mantras internally, drawing on that connection to a life-force beyond my physical experience, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to express myself, to give voice to the chaos inside. In these moments, I would reach for my drawing pad.

Pinned down on my back, unable to move freely, it was important that the pad was small enough to hold with my left hand while I drew with my right. My movements were restricted, but even within those limitations, I could still create. I tuned in to what I was feeling in each moment, letting the raw intensity of my emotions guide me. Deep green, grey, sky blue, red—each color had a meaning, each hue a reflection of something simmering inside.

I’d begin with the first layer: a thick, opaque surface of oil pastel that mirrored the emotion demanding to be felt. I pressed the color into the page, letting it take shape, building a layer of that particular feeling until something shifted within me. The change happened once the emotion had been heard, acknowledged. These feelings, however intense, didn’t just want to be experienced—they wanted to be expressed.

Once that layer was complete, I’d pause, listen again. What emotion was next? Which feeling wanted to make itself known? I’d reach for another color, layering it over the first, sometimes completely covering the original color, sometimes letting them coexist. Each stroke of pastel carried a weight, a message, a release. I listened, responded, and let the emotions dictate what color came next, which direction to take. The process was deeply meditative, each step a dialogue between me and the experience unfolding within me.

As I drew, tiny balls of oil pastel gathered on the page, little round bits of wax that collected on the white hospital sheets beneath me. They smeared and smudged, staining the sterile environment with color and life. In that space, amidst the medical machinery and the cold, clinical surroundings, I found warmth in those smears of color.

Then came the scratching. I’d take a bamboo pencil and carve into the layers, etching the unspoken words that needed to be released:

Help.
This feels too hard.
Only 103 hours left of radiation.

Each time I scratched away at the colors, my emotions carved into the page, my mind found a place to travel—a place where I could escape the relentlessness of radiation. The simple act of drawing gave me access to life, to the deepest part of my internal being. Radiation felt like an attack, like my body was being burnt alive from the inside, but drawing was my way of fighting back. It allowed me to reclaim a sense of control, to create in the midst of destruction.

The art I created wasn’t meant to be seen by anyone else. It wasn’t about beauty or aesthetics—it was about survival. Each stroke, each layer, was a lifeline. The act of creating in that moment felt vital, as though it was the only thing keeping me tethered to myself.