Some of you may have already seen this reflection in my personal Substack feed, but I’m sharing it here as well, because it directly connects to the themes I explored in my latest art collection, Unspoken Conversations. It’s a story about what we carry when we move, and why no place can outrun our inner work.
Some years ago, someone asked me a question I’ve never forgotten: “If I move away from the place where everything fell apart, will my life get easier?”
The question came up during a conversation about loss. This person had lost a parent and asked me if moving away would make life easier. Because everywhere they turned, there were reminders of life before and after that overlapped too much.
She wondered if a new place would loosen the grip of grief.
I understood the question deeply because I’ve asked it myself many many times.
If you’ve followed my work, you probably know I’ve lived in nine different countries.
Nine. Each move felt like a reinvention. New surroundings. New sounds. Different grocery lists, different colors in the sky.
At first, it works. There’s an undeniable relief in the distraction of change.
You’re busy figuring out where to buy bread, how to say “thank you” in a new language, and how to meet friends again from scratch. For a while, you don’t have time to think about the hard things.
But here’s the truth no one wants to tell you: Your problem will pack its suitcase too.
It will follow you on the plane. It will stand next to you in customs, silently tapping its foot. And when you arrive in your new home, which looks so much different than your previous home, it will crawl into bed with you like it never left.
I Know This Because I’ve Tried It
I’ve stood on beaches in the Dominican Republic thinking I had finally escaped specific fears. I’ve walked through the streets of Hyderabad thinking I had left grief behind in Europe. I’ve sat in coffee shops in The Hague pretending I wasn’t still carrying the old stories with me.
But no matter where I went, the same heaviness eventually arrived.
Sometimes in a different form, like loneliness, anxiety, overworking myself, or questioning my worth. Sometimes, it's exactly the same, just wearing new clothes.
We think, or even believe, that moving away will heal us because it changes our perspective. And sure, it gives us new perspectives.
But healing isn’t about geography. It’s about dialogue.
The Conversation You Can’t Avoid
Eventually, you have to sit down with your grief. With your fear. With the version of yourself you’re trying to outrun. You have to invite it to the table and ask: “Why are you still here?” “What are you trying to teach me?”
I’ve had to do this with my own life, more than once.
I’ve sat in studios, halfway around the world from my childhood home, still feeling the sting of things I thought I’d buried under stamps in my passport.
And here’s what I know for sure: Moving away doesn’t erase pain. It postpones the meeting.
At some point, the conversation will happen. You can choose to have it now, or let it follow you again and again until you do.
But It’s Not All Hopeless
Don’t get me wrong, moving can still be beautiful. Sometimes it gives you the space you need to breathe again. It can soften the volume of memories. It can introduce you to new parts of yourself you never knew existed.
But if you’re moving to escape, rather than to expand, you’ll end up disappointed.
The story will always unpack itself in your new place, piece by piece, until you decide to stop, open the suitcase, and see what’s really inside.
For me, that’s what painting has become. A way to meet my own stories, face-to-face.
To ask them why they’re still here. To let them stay, but on my terms.
PS:
This reflection is part of my new collection about the unspoken moments we carry.
Some of these paintings hold exactly this kind of story, the ones we try to leave behind but can’t.
Ciao,
Ana