I can’t remember a time when art hasn’t been part of my life. It’s always been more than just a hobby—it’s been a way for me to make sense of things that words can’t really explain. It taught me how to slow down, give details the attention they deserve, and prioritize quality over just a completed product.
Learning these qualities helped with my perfectionism. I have a desire for excellence that honestly isn’t always healthy and threatens to turn my hobbies into chores. But art taught me to enjoy the process rather than fixating on getting everything perfect. The more patient I was with myself and the process, the more I could enjoy creating and developing my skills.
The lessons I learned through my paint, canvas, colored pencils, and sketchbooks served as metaphors for life. Through the application of color, I learned to appreciate the whole spectrum of human experiences. I can apply that artistic mindset to every challenge and triumph. That perspective helped me realize that just as I use complementary colors like yellow and purple to create depth, life is built on that same principle of contrast and opposition.
But it’s a lot easier to understand this principle than to live it. Opposition isn’t just something that we must endure—it’s a fundamental truth that has existed since the beginning of time. The world needs night to have day. Animals graze, and predators prey on them. Summer gives way to winter. Life guarantees we’ll face opposition, and the wise understand that struggles are actually a gift, that enduring hardships helps us live a richer life.
Good artists know that complementary colors create depth because they’re opposite each other on the color wheel, making them more vivid when placed side by side. Life works the same way—if we never experience the deep purples of sorrow, we can never fully appreciate the brilliant yellows of joy. Without one, the other loses its meaning. A life carefully sheltered from hardship might feel safe and comfortable. Some might argue that it is not worth the risk of another failed relationship, trying out for the team again, or taking a chance that might result in pain, but I invite you to appreciate your heartbreak. A person who avoids all adversity can’t fully experience the depth that struggle makes possible.
The next time sadness comes—and it will—try to resist shaking your fist at it or rushing past it. Instead, take time to feel it. Notice what emotions are moving through your heart and soul. With time, something good will eventually happen. One day, someone good will come around, you’ll make the team, or you’ll triumph in some way. Your spectrum will be complete, and you will live a life full of all the best colors.
In contrast to your previous sadness, this good thing will illuminate your soul in a way that shallow pleasure never could. There’s no replacement for that happiness—the joy that comes from emerging through genuine sorrow.
I’ve walked through my share of dark valleys. I felt the grief of my friend’s drowning, and the loss of my grandfather when I was thousands of miles from home. Each brought intense pain—the deep purples and blues of my emotional spectrum. Yet the worst moments of my life were when I shut down completely, and my spectrum converted to grayscale.
By the end of my senior year, the numbness from school pressures and responsibilities had turned into creative burnout. I was making art for portfolios and grades—not because I was inspired or excited to do it. Each piece was assigned to me, so every brushstroke seemed forced. I wasn’t connected to my work anymore. My art, which had taught me about patience and joy, had become just another source of stress. During that time, I felt nothing at all. Not sadness, not joy, not even anger—just a dull gray that stretched across my landscape. I would have given anything to feel sadness again, to feel anything. I needed to know I could still feel. I pleaded with God, “Please just let me cry again.”
I learned that even the darkest colors are necessary. My struggles were specific to me and my journey, and they became essential preparation for what came next.
At the beginning of summer, a friend asked me to paint his copy of the Book of Mormon. It felt like an epiphany. It was a way for me to step back into art, to use one of my talents to serve other people. I made an Instagram post offering to paint custom copies of the Book of Mormon for friends who’d received mission calls, and I got a lot of excited responses.
When I paint those books, I make them as specific as possible to each person so my friends know they mean something to me. For one of my friends serving in New Mexico, I painted the state flag, with hot chili peppers and colors that capture that New Mexico vibe. For my friend who had won the state championship in a track-and-field relay with his teammate—who was also called to the same mission in Australia—I painted a hand exchanging a baton over two different books. When you put them together, you get the whole picture, all in Australia’s colors.
The Spirit prompted me to write a letter to one of my friends in his book. He later texted me, saying, “That message really meant a lot to me. I was going through a really hard time.”
I may never know how much receiving a painted book truly means in the moment. I’m sure my friends are grateful and think it’s cool. But I hope they realize later that it came from my desire to serve my Lord. As the scriptures say, “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings, ye are only in the service of your God.” I serve others because I love Him and because I love the people I’m serving.
I learned that darkness is necessary in life and art, and that creating without purpose and intention makes the process feel incomplete. Because I knew what it felt like to be disconnected from my gifts, I now treasure the connection between creativity and service. The gray numbness I experienced helped me recognize color and feeling as sacred gifts. The contrast is what makes it meaningful—the purple makes the yellow more brilliant.
Painting those books didn’t just reignite my love for art. It taught me, in the most tangible way, what it means to live a Christlike life—to embrace the full spectrum as He did. Christ is my ultimate inspiration for creating art and living fully. He is the first creator and encourages us to be creators as well. He is the light and the life of the world. His birth brought light, and his death brought darkness. He taught us that sadness is often the price we pay for lasting joy, and that the contrast itself is sacred.
That’s how you live a beautiful, full-spectrum life. It’s actually pretty simple—but simple in a grand way, as all profound truths are when you take everything else away. Not by avoiding the hard colors or muting them, but by embracing them as essential parts of the complete picture. When you do, you discover that the contrast isn’t just bearable—it’s beautiful, and it’s what makes life worth living.
