The Glass Just Broke
The glass just broke. And maybe that was the moment I finally understood what these last weeks have been: fragile, dangerous, brilliant, and on the edge of shattering.
Today is Monday, November 24th my thirty-second birthday. I woke up not thinking about age, or what it means to grow older, but about the final meeting of the project that consumed me. I asked for a day off long before knowing this would be the day of the meeting. It feels strangely poetic that the meeting I believe may change my life happened on the day I was born.
These last fifteen days felt like walking through fire: painting until two in the morning, working at the office from ten, barely breathing in between. I used to imagine that birthdays were moments for reflection — but this year, I didn’t think of anything except the work in front of me. When you finally walk the path you chose — even if it’s foolish, even if it breaks you — the fear of aging disappears. I’m where I’m supposed to be, even if the road is insane.
With the project nearing completion, I had what I thought was the perfect “cherry on top.” An extra idea. An extra layer. Paint on glass.
I had one weekend.
One weekend to reinvent everything.
Saturday morning I rushed to buy glass. Googled late at night how to make oil paint last on it. Asked my father to help me scratch the surface with a precision machine — writing on the glass so fine it was almost like tattooing light. And then, while unpacking, the first sheet broke in my hands.
I had three tries.
I didn’t think, I didn’t breathe — I started the second immediately.
My mind went empty. My face close to the glass, scratching lines the thickness of a hair. The sound of the machine hitting the glass became a kind of meditation. For a moment I disappeared completely — no fear, no deadline, only the delicate violence of carving words into something transparent.
Then the crack.
Sharp, sudden, final.
The second one shattered.
I don’t know what I felt — anger, sadness, disbelief. Was I dreaming too big? Was the universe telling me to stop?
Tarla grounded me, like she always does.
“Breathe. What is in your control? What can you do now that tomorrow you won’t regret?”
I tried the third sheet — my last hope.
It lasted three minutes.
I had bought the wrong glass. It couldn’t be carved.
The world stopped.
I felt something inside me break with it.
But I refused to let it end that way.
If the world says no, try again — but differently.
Sunday morning I bought acrylic instead of glass. Imperfect, less delicate, but workable.
It wasn’t what I dreamed, but it worked enough to carry the idea.
Finishing a project is never peaceful. Looking back, there are a thousand things I would change.
At 16:52 today, the meeting ended.
I sat there wondering:
Am I awake? Do I deserve this?
Millions of people would want to be in my position and yet I felt the shadow of impostor syndrome pressing against me. I am not satisfied with all the paintings. I scroll social media and see artists who are technically better. And I ask myself:
Why me? Why now? Am I enough?
But then I remember:
I worked for this. I fought for this.
I came closer to burnout than ever before. I sacrificed movie nights, dinners with friends, sleep, comfort, everything.
What fuels me is not talent, it’s hearing:
“I don’t know how you do it.”
“How do you have time for everything?”
Those questions tell me I’m walking a path not everyone would dare to walk.
And inside me something answers:
If you think this is impressive, you haven’t seen anything yet.
Maybe I’m writing this letter in a moment of optimism. The trance has finally broken. I feel as though I’ve just woken up from weeks of intensity I can barely remember only the completion remains, and the certainty that I did everything I could.
The next days, the next chapters of this artistic journey, are out of my hands now.
For once, the future isn’t something I need to force, it’s something I need to let happen.
Tonight, it’s time for family, for the present moment, for breath.
Cheers to Dedication.
