from certainty to freedom: why I choose my art

OMG !!! I've resigned from my permanent teaching position. Brave to some, incomprehensible to others.

"Giving up a stable job? Becoming fully independent? Making a living from your art alone?" The questions and doubts keep coming. But for me, teaching—with all its rules and structures—felt like a heavy weight around my ankle after my burnout.

My choice didn't come out of nowhere; it's the result of a process in which I lost myself in a system that didn't fit me. My burnout was a turning point. Through my art, I found myself again. That's what made this decision necessary. That permanent position was a kind of false comfort zone: it offered security, but it also trapped me in a cycle of someday… if… then…. I no longer want a life where I wait for "someday," but a life where I choose now what truly makes me happy.

And yes, that means I'm now fully forging my own path, with my art as my main focus. Apparently, that raises a lot of questions for people.

"Can you actually live off that?"

It's striking how people assume that art can't be a legitimate source of income, and that you always need some sort of "safety net." As if anyone starting their own business in any other sector is automatically seen as independent, but an artist isn't. As if success is only measured by a steady paycheck and a predictable career path. As if passion and financial stability are inherently incompatible. Creating art isn't just a profession—it's a way of life. And yes, it's a challenge, but one I consciously choose.

"How long did it take you to create this artwork?"

As if the value of an artwork could be measured in hours. But art isn't just about time. It's a sum of experience, emotion, and craftsmanship, as well as years of experimenting, failing, and starting over.

"Who buys your work?"

Behind this question often lies doubt. Is it mostly friends and family who support you? Are there really people willing to invest in it? Yes. Art touches people in a different way than mass-produced items, and it's precisely that emotional connection that gives it value. Art is not just a product; it's an experience. And those who are moved by a piece, who recognize a part of themselves in it, understand that. So why should only family or friends buy my work?

"What do you do all day?"

As if making art were just painting or drawing whenever inspiration strikes. But art is much more than that: it's doing research, experimenting, sketching, choosing materials, organizing, planning, communicating, and handling administrative tasks. It's both a craft and a business.

"Did you become self-employed solely through your own art?"

Yes, but that's not the whole story. Besides my personal work, I also create applied pieces—like prints and greeting cards—and take on commissioned projects. Additionally, I work as a creative inspirer. This way, I combine art, custom work, and inspiration into a versatile and dynamic practice.

"Why is a commissioned piece more expensive than personal work?"

A commissioned piece—even without a personal story—is something I create solely because you requested it. If you hadn't ordered it, I would have spent that time on my own work. Commissioned work requires coordination and focus on specific wishes. That means I have to work within a set framework, and that extra effort comes at a price.

Personal work vs. commissioned work

• Personal work: I create intuitively and decide everything myself. There are no external expectations.

• Commissioned work without a personal story: I work within a given framework.

• Commissioned work with a personal story: This is fully tailored to the client and carries an emotional weight, requiring extra empathy and attention.

In addition, I also create applied work like greeting cards and prints, which fall somewhere between personal and commissioned work. These pieces are pre-made and available to a wider audience, but they still reflect my personal style and vision. Because they aren't made for a single client and can be produced in series, they are usually priced differently. This way, I make art more accessible to a broader audience without compromising authenticity.

My freedom is priceless!

My choice to leave teaching behind wasn't a leap into the unknown—it was a conscious investment in my happiness. I've chosen a life where I chart my own path, even if that path is scattered with uncertainties and challenges.

Is it easy? No, certainly not.
Every time someone questions my choices, it feels like I have to justify myself, like I need to prove that my path is as valuable as a traditional career. That stings, because recognition feels good. Yet I increasingly realize: what may seem unimaginable to one person can be exactly the right path for another.

I don't see myself as better than anyone else; I simply choose to follow my own path and stay true to what really matters to me. Ultimately, I live my life, not someone else's. The freedom I feel now is priceless. I am learning to let go of expectations and trust my own convictions. My life revolves around creating, growing, and continually discovering myself. My art is not just what I do—it is who I am. And that deserves freedom—not as a trade-off for security, but as a conscious choice.