Have you ever watched opportunities, love, recognition and second chances being given to other people and quietly wondered, “Perhaps me not?”
Perhaps she will be chosen. Perhaps he will receive the opportunity. Perhaps everyone else will get another chance—but perhaps not me.
I began thinking about this while standing in front of one of my old paintings. It was a piece I once considered finished. I had signed it, stepped away from it and accepted it for what it was.
But time passed, and I changed.
The painting had not become worthless. It simply stopped speaking in the way I needed it to speak. I could see another possibility beneath the existing image, so I picked up my brush and began painting over it.
That decision became more than an artistic exercise. It became a lesson about rejection, identity, healing and the courage to begin again.
Watch “Perhaps Me” on YouTube: HERE
An Old Version Is Not the Final Version
When I paint over an old piece of artwork, I am not declaring that the original was a failure. I am acknowledging that I can now see something more.
That realization made me ask myself an important question: How many of us have accepted an old version of ourselves as the final version?
Other people often become comfortable with the version of us they understand. They learn our habits, weaknesses, strengths and predictable responses. Without realizing it, we may begin performing the portrait they have created of us.
When we finally change, establish boundaries or step outside their expectations, they may ask, “Who do you think you are?”
What they sometimes mean is, “Who gave you permission to become someone I did not prepare for?”
The person I used to be may have been necessary. She survived difficult seasons. She worked with the knowledge, courage and emotional capacity she had at the time. I can honour her without remaining her forever.
A previous version of me can be true without being permanent.
Rejection Is Not My Identity
Rejection can make us examine ourselves under the harshest light.
When we are not chosen, invited, promoted, supported or loved in the way we hoped, we may begin searching for the defect. We ask what is wrong with us and what other people can see that we cannot.
Sometimes rejection provides useful information. There may be areas where we need to learn, improve or prepare. However, rejection is not always a reliable judge of our value.
A person can overlook value because they do not understand it. A room can reject someone whose presence challenges its habits. A closed door may lead to a place that is too small for the person we are becoming.
The danger comes when we turn an experience into an identity.
I was rejected, so I must be unwanted.
I failed, so I must be a failure.
Someone left, so I must be unworthy of love.
A plan collapsed, so I must be incapable of building anything worthwhile.
But an experience is not a name. A closed door is not a final verdict, and someone’s inability to value me is not proof that value is absent.
Painting Over Is Not Erasing
When I paint over an old work, the original image does not completely disappear. Its texture rises through the new layers. Its colours influence the new composition. Sometimes a line from the original becomes one of the most interesting features in the transformed piece.
Healing can work in the same way.
Healing does not require me to pretend that the past never happened. I do not have to deny the pain, minimize the loss or rewrite my history into something more comfortable.
I can tell the truth and still create beauty.
We often imagine a second chance as a completely fresh canvas, but life rarely works that way. Most new beginnings are built over something—an old belief, a disappointment, a scar, a mistake, a memory or a relationship that changed us.
We begin again with evidence of where we have been.
A blank canvas has possibility, but a lived-in canvas has depth. It carries texture, resistance, history and marks that cannot be manufactured.
My past may show through, but it does not have to dominate the picture.
Painting over is not an act of shame. It is an act of vision. It says, “I can see more here.” It reminds me that the present condition is not the only possible condition.
The story is not finished simply because one version has dried.
I Am Allowed to Change My Mind
There are decisions I made with the information and capacity I had at the time. As I learned more, I began to see some things differently.
Pride can keep us loyal to choices that no longer fit because we are afraid of appearing inconsistent. However, consistency is not always the same as integrity.
Integrity requires me to align myself with what I now know to be true.
I can say:
“I believed that then, but I have learned more.”
“I accepted that then, but I now understand my value differently.”
“I called that love then, but I can now recognize where care was absent.”
Artists revise. Writers edit. Builders redesign. Businesses reposition. Nature moves through seasons without apologizing for changing its colours.
I am also allowed to revise.
Changing my mind does not necessarily mean I was foolish before. It may mean that I am awake now. My wisdom may have finally caught up with my experience.
Choosing Myself Does Not Make Me Selfish
Many of us were taught to prove love through exhaustion, loyalty through silence and goodness through self-neglect.
We became available to everyone except ourselves.
Choosing myself does not mean choosing only myself. It means including myself among the people worthy of my care. It means my needs do not automatically belong at the bottom of every list.
There is a difference between generosity and abandoning myself.
Even a paintbrush must be cleaned, reshaped and cared for. Without care, it eventually becomes unable to perform the work it was created to do.
Perhaps I can rest.
Perhaps I can accept the opportunity.
Perhaps I can say no without producing a long explanation.
Perhaps I can leave situations that continually diminish me.
Perhaps I can receive help.
Perhaps I can be celebrated without shrinking to make other people comfortable.
Arrogance says, “Only me.”
Healing says, “Me too.”
The Courage to Make Another Brush Stroke
The first brush stroke over an old painting can be frightening. Once the brush touches the surface, I can no longer pretend that I am only considering change. The familiar image has been interrupted.
Transformation may begin awkwardly.
A boundary expressed with a trembling voice is still a boundary. An application submitted with doubt is still an application. A first class, first sale, first video or first attempt does not have to look graceful to be real.
We often wait for confidence before taking action, but confidence frequently arrives after we act. We do something afraid, survive the experience and discover that fear did not have the final word.
Then we make another stroke.
A single stroke rarely completes a painting. It is the decision to return that matters—showing up again, adjusting the colour, correcting the line and building another layer.
Small, intentional actions can eventually transform the entire picture.
From “Perhaps Me Not” to “Perhaps Me”
What would happen if I removed one word from the phrase?
Not.
“Perhaps me not” becomes “Perhaps me.”
Perhaps I am not disqualified.
Perhaps my age is evidence—not an expiry date.
Perhaps what I survived gave me material, not merely damage.
Perhaps my sensitivity is not weakness.
Perhaps my difference is not a design flaw.
Perhaps the part of myself I keep trying to hide is where my most honest work will come from.
Perhaps I do not need everyone’s permission. Perhaps I need clarity, courage, wise counsel and the willingness to accept responsibility for my own becoming.
Perhaps the invitation I have been waiting for is the one I must extend to myself.
My Story Is Still Being Painted
There may be places where the paint has cracked. There may be colours I would never choose today. There may be evidence of people who handled my life without care. There may be parts of the picture I still do not know how to redeem.
But I can begin where I am.
I do not have to repaint everything today. I do not need a complete vision before making one honest mark. Sometimes the next right stroke reveals the one that should follow it.
If someone looks at the new work and says, “I preferred the old you,” I must remember that they are entitled to their preference—but they are not entitled to my permanence.
I am not starting from nothing. I am starting from experience.
I am not erasing my story. I am adding another layer of truth to it.
I am not pretending the first version did not matter. I am simply refusing to believe it is the only version I am allowed to be.
The canvas is still here. I am still here. My story is not finished.
Perhaps me?
Yes. Perhaps me, too.
Watch the complete “Perhaps Me” video on the Shawn Ashman Art YouTube channel: HERE
What part of your life is ready for another brush stroke? Share your answer in the comments beneath the video.
For more inspirational art, Jamaican artist stories, creative motivation and reflections from my studio in Kingston, Jamaica, subscribe to @shawnashmanart on youtube.