I Didn’t Plan to Become an Artist. I Just Needed to Feel Like Myself Again.

When I left my teaching career, I was lost—adrift and grieving, with confusion about my identity, my body’s challenges, my diagnoses, and my future. I had two young children and had been teaching elementary school for nearly 20 years.

And then—after taking a leave—I was retiring, twenty years earlier than I ever expected.

I left behind a job I loved, one that shaped my adult identity. I didn’t want to stop teaching. But my body said, “all done.” My days of pushing through a full-time job were over.

My diagnoses (an unfunny, broken-toy version of a KinderEgg Surprise) arrived with curable and incurable, rare and common, genetic and acquired conditions. Some of them, thankfully, are in the rearview. The rest? Still here—Ehlers-Danlos serves up a whole host of challenges, including (but never limited to) fatigue, migraines, slow healing, and an unpredictably rebellious and “bendy” body.

After decades of being undiagnosed, I didn’t realize how much I was asking of my body—or how much damage I was doing just trying to keep up.

You can manage it (sort of) with meticulous pacing and hard-earned know-how. But yeah. Long story short; it sucked.

Fun fact: I read recently that these types of chronic illnesses can be referred to as “Dynamic Disabilities.” It's great, right? I’ve long battled with the “I’m basically unreliable” inner critic. Now I can snap back to that goblin, “Hey! I’m dealing with dynamics here.” It sounds more complicated—no, more sophisticated. And honestly, it feels better.

At any rate, there was so much I didn’t know about what would come next. I only knew that I needed to find comfort and direction in the middle of grief and change.

And so, one creative thing led to another—until I ended up back at one of my secret favorite diversions: drawing and painting.

A New Kind of Classroom

I’ve always been the crafty type—raised by skilled, creative people. But like many, I bought into the myth that you’re either “born an artist” or not. So I kept my doodles and dreams to myself, intimidated by those who "showed early genius".

But later in life, I discovered the truth: drawing and painting are skills; you can learn them, and you can build them.

You can even fall in love with gouache, watercolor, and colored pencil without going to art school—especially if you find excellent teachers.  My dining room table hasn’t seen a proper meal without art supplies in a while, but it’s full of color and hope. 

Now, art gives me a sense of peace, direction, and identity in a life that can feel unpredictable.

I paint in nooks and crannies of time—between parenting, managing my dynamic disability, co-running a household, and helping my husband run his company. Sometimes I paint while the dog snores and the laundry piles up.

Until recently, my creative space was the family table. These days—unless it’s unbearably hot—I work on our enclosed porch, surrounded by light, beach shells, and spider plants that (miraculously) thrive.

This is the kind of space where there’s tea in my favorite mug, and paint water swirls in glass yogurt jars. Stella & Dorrie Studio is named for two of our animals—a dog and a cat. Dorrie naps nearby. Stella visits when she pleases, usually to deliver a pointed Siamese-style meow-yowl critique.

Sometimes my space is the family hang-out zone. Sometimes it hosts spontaneous snack breaks. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine.

Why I Create

That little space, or even more importantly, that little time—the one with the yogurt jars, the dog bed, the play—is more than a studio. It’s where I come back to myself. And that’s at the heart of why I create.

I make art as an act of care. Of comfort. Of healing and connection. It helps me feel like myself. Build skills. Access joy. Stay grounded.

The practice—the quiet, regular return to something I love—reminds me of what I believe and helps me process the total madness I see unfolding in the world. I believe in the inherent worth and dignity of all people, and our place in a great, interconnected web. I believe in social justice, and I believe in story—in both visual and written form—as a way to help us feel more seen, more understood, and less alone.

When we continue to return to the things we love, even in ten-minute windows, we grow. We build something. We change.

What You Will Find Here

I love posting on Instagram, but this blog gives me the space to dive deeper into the ideas behind the work. Here you’ll find stories that offer creativity, comfort, and color—alongside occasional tales of a lost flip-flop, an inspiring read, or a half-finished sketch balancing on my lap at swim team practice (see the sketch in blue below). You’ll also find process notes, experiments with new materials, little windows into my practice, and shop updates.

Hidden in the snapshots and captions I’ve posted on Instagram, I’ve begun to notice four guideposts—ideas I return to again and again. One of them changed the way I think about rest entirely.  I hope you’ll stick around as I m it, and more, in the weeks to come.  Make sure to subscribe if you haven't already. Join me here. 

Writing this blog post felt a little like setting the table—making space for a conversation I’m excited to have.  

And since this all started at a family table, I thought I’d end with a question—one I’ve been asking myself, and now, you. 

Do you have guideposts, too? I’d genuinely love to know what’s been holding you steady.

Thanks for being here. Truly.

Miranda

© Miranda Miller, Stella & Dorrie Studio. All artwork, photography, and content are protected under copyright. Please do not use without written permission.