What Broke Me Open
Listening to the Light
WHAT IS IT TO BE ALIVE - 27 x 27 in
Medium: Painted digitally on iPad Pro
“This is a reflection from From London to Mexico, a book in progress about the quiet signs that guide us into unexpected change.”
Life is a wonderful paradoxical mystery. Sometimes the most unexpected opportunities come disguised as failure. Our lowest points prepare the way for what’s about to rise.
Looking back to early 1995, after a few intense years of making art, I remember reality inevitably catching up with me. I could no longer cover the rent for my studio and had reached a complete dead end: physically and emotionally. I had to find a job… any job.
I ended up in a central London kitchen, and after a while, I was promoted (if you can call it that) to a sandwich delivery boy. I was paid on commission: if I didn’t sell, I didn’t earn. My friend, charming, relentless, and apparently born to flirt with PA’s over chicken tikka baguettes, did brilliantly. I, on the other hand, lacked the gene for small talk and couldn’t bring myself to compliment someone’s tie in exchange for a tuna melt. Most of the office workers treated me like malfunctioning background music: annoying, vaguely in the way, and best ignored.
One day, after coming back to the shop with zero sales and a heart full of defeat, the manager must’ve seen something in my face. He took pity on me and moved me behind the sandwich counter, where at least I’d get a steady wage. I accepted the lifeline, but it wasn’t a fit either. The pace, the pressure… it wore me down. It all ended one day with a slip of the hand. I was slicing a baguette, midway through a customer’s increasingly absurd list of sandwich demands, when the knife slipped and carved a clean line through the palm of my hand. It was the most meaningful mark I’d made in months. Ironically, I’d spent years carving stone and shaping form with care and intention, only to have life make its own statement: right there, in flesh. Looking back, it felt like a line being drawn under that chapter of my life. A cut, yes… but also a quiet full stop.
That was it. The sign I needed. I handed in my notice and walked away.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that low point was a gift in disguise.
At that point in my life, I was practicing Nichiren Buddhism. I remember chanting with all the strength I had: desperately, determinedly, calling out for something to shift. The practice was simple but profound: chant every day, take action, and then let go. Trust that the right causes would bear fruit.
But trust didn’t come easily. My mind was chaotic. I was full of doubt and shame about the situation I’d landed in. Still, the teachings reminded me to stay awake to life—to notice signs, synchronicities, openings. To expect them. And to move when they appeared, even if they didn’t match my ideas of what life should look like.
Around that time, I happened to speak to an old friend of my then-girlfriend: someone I hadn’t spoken to in a long while. We were catching up briefly over the phone when she mentioned she’d recently completed a teacher training course at Goldsmiths College. She described it as intense but incredibly rewarding. “You should really look into it,” she said, with surprising conviction.
At first, I laughed. Me? A teacher? I’d made it very clear to everyone around me that teaching was not for me. My own school experience had been complicated. There were a few wonderful teachers, but also many who taught through fear and control. No one would guess nowadays, but I was shy at heart, quiet by nature, and the idea of standing in front of a classroom full of kids was nothing short of terrifying.
And yes, part of me still carried the old belief that art teachers were just failed artists: those who’d missed the last train to greatness and decided to settle in the staffroom instead. I couldn’t help but think of my old grammar school art teacher—a cool, clearly talented young guy who seemed far too gifted to be trapped in that chaotic classroom. Most of the students didn’t want to be there, and he spent more time managing behaviour than teaching. Every lesson was reduced to basic observational drawing—no concepts and minimal movement, zero creativity, and no paint in sight. It was the ultimate insult to art. And to him, really. That memory sat in the back of my mind like a warning sign.
Eventually, I made a single phone call. Just to inquire.
One phone call. That’s all it took. After all my tortured artist soul-searching and noble struggle, they booked me in for an interview the next day and practically welcomed me aboard on the spot.
I was, understandably, thrilled. And by thrilled, I mean silently pissed off and totally petrified at the thought of the huge blunder I’d just made. Somehow, I was sure life was having a quiet chuckle… and, annoyingly, I found myself laughing too, out of sheer reluctant surrender.
Just as you’d expect, the course was fully funded by the government, and I’d also receive support with housing and living expenses. As if on cue, every door opened at once.
I didn’t have many other options. But I was beginning to learn something deeper: that life hands you exactly what you need to grow—paying very little attention to your grand plans. And if you’re able to let go and trust, things can shift in ways you never imagined.
This was my first real experience of not just listening to the chatterbox in my head, and surrendering to life. And it changed everything.
Looking back, I can see the signs were there long before I admitted them.
I had built up this story—this myth, really—that in order to become a “real” artist, I had to suffer for it. Work long hours. Push through isolation. Make sacrifices. And eventually, someone would discover me and I’d receive the recognition I deserved. But the truth was, I had drifted far from anything that felt alive. And while I don’t regret those years (I truly gave it my all) I can now see that I wasn’t listening. I was forcing.
What finally broke me wasn’t the lack of money or the rejection. It was the loneliness. The aching absence of energy, collaboration, connection. By the end of it, I made a vow: Whatever happens next, I want people in my life. I want noise. Movement. Presence.
And life listened.
Be careful what you wish for.
If this moment speaks to something in your own life, a breaking point, or a strange, quiet persistent voice nudging you to change direction, I’d love to hear about it. Feel free to share in the comments or just sit with it. Sometimes the most meaningful shifts begin where things fall apart.