October 2014 · Colored Marker Illustration · Bangkok, Thailand
PP Journey began without a plan.
I didn’t wake up that morning thinking I was going to create a series.
There was no concept, no storyboard, no intention to “make art.”
All I had was a small sketchbook, a few colored markers, and a heart that felt too full.
Bangkok was loud outside the window — traffic, street vendors, humid air, the constant rhythm of the city. But inside the room, everything felt unusually quiet. Pat and I had come here hoping for a change of scenery, maybe even a change of heart. I thought traveling might fix something between us, or at least loosen the tension we had both been carrying.
But emotions don’t disappear just because you change cities.
They travel with you.
That day, instead of talking, I chose silence.
I sat at the desk and started drawing.
At first, it was just lines. A face. Two small figures. A sentence. A simple scene.
Then another page.
Then another.
And another.
One drawing quietly led to the next.
It didn’t feel like “creating.”
It felt like releasing.
Every sketch became a fragment of memory — moments from the past fourteen years with Pat. Love. Misunderstandings. Fights. Holding hands. Letting go. Waiting. Forgiving. Hoping. Small promises we made without realizing.
Some drawings looked playful and childlike.
Some were almost embarrassingly honest.
Some surprised me, as if they came from somewhere deeper than thought.
I wasn’t trying to make them beautiful.
I wasn’t trying to make them perfect.
I just needed them to be true.
Time passed without me noticing. Morning light slowly turned into evening glow. I didn’t speak a single word the entire day. The only sounds were the soft scratching of marker tips against paper and my own breathing.
By the time I finished, there were seventeen drawings.
Seventeen small windows.
Seventeen pieces of us.
When Pat finally asked, “What are you doing?” I had just put the cap back on the last pen.
I handed him the sketchbook.
I expected him to laugh or make a joke about how childish they looked.
Instead, he went quiet.
As he flipped through the pages, his eyes slowly turned red.
He didn’t say much, but I could feel something shift between us — as if these simple drawings had spoken the things we both struggled to say out loud. As if they built a small bridge made of honesty.
That moment surprised me.
I didn’t realize drawings could carry that much weight.
Looking back now, it feels like that day opened a parallel universe — a subtle turning point in our relationship. Nothing dramatic. No big conversation. Just quiet understanding.
Around that time, I had been reading books about letting go and healing old memories. I was learning that not everything needs to be solved by force. Sometimes you just sit with your feelings and let them move through you.
These illustrations became my way of practicing that.
Draw.
Breathe.
Let go.
No control. No expectations.
Just presence.
Today, when I look back at PP Journey, I don’t only see sketches.
I see two people trying to stay together.
I see fear slowly turning into acceptance.
I see myself learning that love isn’t about controlling the outcome.
It’s about staying.
Listening.
And sometimes spending an entire day in silence, letting your heart draw what words cannot.
That was the beginning of PP Journey.
Not just an illustrated diary,
but the beginning of a gentler version of me.