The Train Between Me and Me

Hello besties!!

  This week has been full of complexities—messy, beautiful, quiet, loud—all at once. You know those weeks that feel like a slow burn until one moment you realize, "Wait, I lived through all of that?" That’s me. Right now. Sitting here, finally putting my thoughts into words again.

     The truth is, life lately has felt like being on a train that’s moving fast—sometimes too fast for me to understand where I’m even headed. Two weeks ago, I felt like everything was on track. I was flowing smoothly, art was happening, work was fulfilling, and emotionally, I felt okay. Now? It’s like I hit a few emotional potholes, and I’m still trying to recover, catch my breath, and remind myself that it’s okay not to be okay. But let’s rewind a little.

     Summer has been one giant balancing act. I’m working at the gallery, jumping between different shows and responsibilities, watching how the “real world” functions behind the scenes. I’ve seen the dust and sweat that goes into preparing an exhibition—the late nights, the planning, the emails, the last-minute paint touch-ups, and how all of it has to be cleaned up and covered by a bright, calm smile on opening night.

     We dress up, we smile, we say hello to guests, and we admire the art like we haven’t just been sweating in the basement organizing inventory or assembling installations. But there’s a weird magic in it, too. A satisfaction that comes from seeing the crowd, from knowing that we made something happen. The art lives, breathes, and communicates because we helped it do so. And the next day? We breathe. We shift gears and go back to work. We climb the stairs of the gallery, open the closet doors, set up the next room, juggle emails, and eat little packets of Goldfish crackers that weirdly taste like heaven in that moment.

It’s a cycle of presence and exhaustion. But I’m grateful to be in it.

This summer, I got to be part of three incredible shows: “Picnic” curated by Didi Dunphy, “Rubberneckin” curated by Kate Burkie, and “Secret Stash” by Sam Lasseter.

Each one felt like stepping into a completely different universe. “Picnic” was like joy dipped in sunlight and shared on a checkered blanket. “Rubberneckin” had this punchy energy that made you pause and look, just like the title suggests. And “Secret Stash”? It was personal, playful, and full of secrets (literally and metaphorically).

What people don’t always realize is how much goes on before these shows are open to the public. It’s not just printing labels and arranging the artwork. It’s the planning emails, the discussions about placement and framing, and the decision-making about lighting and flow. It’s the hidden labor that fuels the visible experience.

Being part of it all—yes, even the messy, sweaty, frustrating parts—has taught me so much about commitment, collaboration, and care.

     Alongside work, I’m still very much a family person. I love them deeply, but let’s be honest: family life is a whole different kind of emotional landscape.

Sometimes I think being part of a family is like living in a house where all the lights are on, but not all the rooms are clean. There’s always something happening. Someone needs something. Someone’s feeling something. And you feel it too, even when you don’t want to.

     Trying to balance my art, my internship, my friendships, my internal world, and my family life feels like a never-ending dance between choosing and sacrificing. I want to be there for everyone. I want to grow. I want to show up in every role. But I’m also just me—and sometimes, I don’t know how to carry it all. And I think that’s okay.

     Lately, my art practice has been more lowkey—small drawings here and there. Quiet moments. Sketchbook scribbles while listening to music. And yet, I feel something big on the horizon. A huge canvas is waiting for me. I haven’t touched it yet, but I know it’s coming. It’s like when you know a storm is rolling in before you see the clouds. Art has always been my place to ask questions. I’m constantly trying to figure myself out on the page. Why do I draw what I draw? Why am I obsessed with the human figure? Why do I keep returning to certain colors, faces, gestures? Maybe I’m trying to understand my own emotional anatomy by drawing someone else’s. Maybe I just like the feeling of pencil on paper, how the lines move, how a single line can say so much.

     Even in all this chaos, I’ve been carving out time to read. My little escape hatch when life gets too noisy.

     The Fury was my most recent read. Fast-paced and twisty, it definitely pulled me in. Was it the best mystery I’ve ever read? Maybe not. But it gave me exactly what I needed: something gripping, something quick, something dramatic.

Now, I’m reading The Parisian Problem by Christina Lauren. Let me tell you—it’s like watching a lighthearted rom-com unfold in your brain. It’s cute, its fun, it doesn’t take itself too seriously, and I’m okay with that. Sometimes, a book doesn’t need to be the deepest thing in the world. Sometimes it just needs to make you smile.

I don’t know what my next read will be yet. Maybe something emotional. Maybe a classic. Or maybe another quick romance. We’ll see.

 I’m taking another short vacation soon. It will be family time, Rest time, and a little pause before fall kicks in and things get busier.

The train is coming—that’s how it feels. My schedule is about to get wild again. School, work, projects, emotions, all of it layered together. So, I’m holding onto these last quiet moments. I’m breathing them in like late summer air. I’m letting myself exist here, in this little in-between space where everything feels possible, and nothing feels quite ready.

Maybe that’s the sweet spot. The not-yet. The soon-but-not-now.

     I started this blog post saying this week was full of complexities. But maybe that’s just life. A constant stream of feelings, deadlines, ideas, people, plans, and unpredictable moments.

Some days are smooth. Some days aren’t. But I’m still here, still trying, still sketching, still dreaming. And that has to count for something.

If you’re also on the train—or waiting for it—I see you. If you’re juggling too many roles, or trying to find your style, or reading cheesy rom-coms just to feel lighter—you’re not alone.

Thanks for being here, for reading, and for giving me space to be a little messy, a little tired, and a little honest.

 Until next time.

Love,

 Seyma