Who I Am: A Journey Through Whimsy, Survival, and Becoming

Hand Illustrated Honeysuckle Bloom

I was born in Durham, North Carolina, but grew up in Garner, back when it still had a small-town feel—long before the boom turned it into what it is today. My childhood wasn’t easy. It was riddled with trauma, but there were sparks of light, too. One of the brightest was the first chapter book I ever read: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass. My fourth-grade teacher gave me that copy, and I still have it—worn, well-loved, and tucked with all the hopes it planted in me. It was my first invitation to curiosity, whimsy, and the idea that things could be different.

Whimsy has been my anchor ever since. It wasn’t until about a year after I started Alphanie Artistry, around 2023, that I finally felt fully myself. My business gave me a place where my oddities, colors, and wonder weren’t just allowed—they were celebrated. I was working, getting good feedback, and for the first time, I could stand comfortably in my own skin. My “whimsy” wasn’t a mask. It was me.

Survival, Pain, and Letting Go

When I was nine years old, I was attacked by a Great Dane. The impact damaged my spine, but no one diagnosed it properly until my twenties. By then, the damage was done. My L4/L5 disc was gone by the time I was thirty, leaving me with constant pain—the grinding of vertebrae against each other a reminder I carry daily. Pain has been a long companion. I spent years dependent on narcotics just to exist. On July 11, 2019, I took my last one outside of surgical recovery. That day became a marker in my life: proof that I could choose something different, even when my body demanded otherwise.

Resilience is a word often used to describe me, but it’s not always a badge I want. Sometimes resilience feels like exhaustion in disguise. There are days I just want to break down, cry, and do nothing. And I’ve learned that’s okay—as long as I don’t give in completely.

Grief, Loss, and Finding Hope Again

This past year has been marked by devastating loss. My mother passed away on October 7th, and my father followed on May 2nd. The grief is still raw, sharp on its edges. For a long time, I was angry—at everything, at nothing, just angry. Lately, though, that fog has begun to lift. I can feel the faint stirrings of hope again, even if they’re fragile. Grief doesn’t vanish, but it shifts, and in that shifting, I’m starting to breathe again.

Risk and Becoming

The wildest risk I ever took was investing our entire tax refund into my business. It left us with barely enough to get by, but within a month, that leap paid itself back. Since then, my business hasn’t slowed down. For me, thriving no longer means just surviving. Thriving means comfort. Not excess, not luxury—just the kind of steady comfort that lets me breathe and create.

One of my proudest victories wasn’t a flashy award or a big stage. It was at the Visibility Lab—being recognized, yes, but also being able to network and socialize in spite of my social anxiety. A small, intimate group, but I felt safe. I felt seen. And that meant more to me than any spotlight ever has.

Identity, Whimsy, and Magic

If there’s one thing I carry proudly, it’s inclusivity wrapped in whimsy. My art and business wear that identity openly. I want people to feel welcomed, to feel like they belong, the way I once longed to feel. My journal is where the magic lives most tangibly—pages of sketches, words, and reflections that keep me tethered to myself.

If I were a Wonderland character, I’d be the White Queen from Through the Looking-Glass. Confounded and confused, yes, but also full of a strange intelligence that doesn’t always fit the moment. That contradiction feels true to me. She’s whimsical and a little scatterbrained on the surface, yet underneath, there’s a quiet wisdom and resilience that often goes unnoticed until it matters most. I see myself in that paradox, carrying both softness and strength in ways that don’t always make sense to others but are undeniably me.

Looking Forward

I don’t have a large family to lean on, so community means everything. I want to be remembered as someone who included everyone, who loved unconditionally and wholeheartedly. But I also want people to understand the invisible battles I fight—the pain, the grief, the moments when asking for help feels like an impossible task after a lifetime of hyper-independence.

And then there are the dreams still ahead. My Bu-Jo’oir project—part bullet journal, part grimoire—both excites and terrifies me. It scares me because it matters. Because it asks me to be seen again in a new way. And maybe that’s what thriving is too: stepping into the fear, carrying grief and pain, and still choosing whimsy, still choosing comfort.