That night, I didn't open a textbook. I opened my sketchbook to a blank page. I took out a new charcoal pencil. And I began to draw. I didn't draw from memory or from a photograph.
I drew from feeling. I let my hand move across the paper, not trying to create a perfect image, but to capture the emotion of the day—the wind, the sound of the waves, the weight of a family's grief, the lightness of release.
The lines were messy, imperfect, but they were true. It was the first line of my own story.