The rockstar vs. the artist.

Have you ever thought about the pieces of yourself? The puzzle of who you are? So many identities stitched into one body, so many roles pulled up to the same table in your mind every day.
Somewhere in me lives the part I used to call the Rockstar. My electricity—my stride, my stamina, my reckless confidence. She loved the lust, the luster, the thrill. Dimly lit bars. Dance floors where nights blurred into mornings. Running on adrenaline, mascara smudged but somehow still strolling into work the next day.
I’ve missed her. The version of me who walked into a room like she owned it. Who danced through strangers. Who made friends with girls in the bathroom with drunken pep talks. Who felt free. Who felt wanted. Who felt big.
But she never left. She’s just changing shape. Hanging up the vegan leather jacket. Trading chaos for something calmer, but stronger. She’s become the Artist.
The Artist is confident, but clear. She still talks to strangers with warmth and intention. She still finds rhythm in a crowded room. She still creates. She still feels everything deeply—but she doesn’t drown it. She turns it into something. She practices yoga, she reads, she scribbles, she sketches. She walks in nature and notices the air on her skin. She reflects inward instead of chasing every shiny distraction.
You don’t need to be a Rockstar to be an Artist.
You just have to be awake.