I've been letting this past weekend settle before trying to put it into words.
Cowgirl Up! at the Sigler Western Museum opened with a preview evening for artists and sponsors—a rare and intimate first look before the exhibition opened to the public. Walking into the museum, I was immediately struck by the presence of the work. Not just the scale of the exhibition, but the depth of it. These women paint with experience, with history, with something hard-earned.
It’s the kind of show that asks you to slow down.
And, if you’re an artist in it, to measure yourself honestly.
As I moved through the galleries, I felt that quiet, familiar voice begin to surface—the one that wonders if your work holds its place. Surrounded by paintings that felt so resolved, so confident, I found myself questioning.
Was my work strong enough?
Did it belong here?
I walked through room after room, taking everything in.
And for a moment, I wondered—what if I don’t find my work at all?
It’s not a rational thought, but it’s a real one. That vulnerable space where you’ve given something of yourself, and now it lives among others you deeply respect.
Then finally, toward the back, I found my paintings.
And there it was.
Gathering Light.
With a beautiful plaque beside it.
First Place in 2D.
I stood there for a moment, not quite able to process what I was seeing. In a room filled with artists I have admired for years, the judge had chosen this piece—not just to be included, but to be recognized.
That shift—from doubt to quiet confirmation—is not something I take lightly.
It wasn’t loud or triumphant. It was still. Grounding.
A reminder that the work we question most deeply is often the work that resonates most clearly beyond us.
Not long after, something else caught my eye.
A small red sticker next to Grace in the Reins.
Simple. Easy to overlook. But meaningful.
A red sticker means the work has sold.
Except… the exhibition hadn’t even opened yet.
That’s when I learned the museum, a Smithsonian affiliated museum, had acquired it for their permanent collection.
There’s something profoundly humbling about that kind of recognition. A piece chosen early—before the public arrives, before the noise and attention. A quiet decision to preserve the work as part of something larger, something lasting.
I didn’t have a polished response to that moment.
I just cried.
Not out of shock alone, but out of the weight of it—the years, the work, the persistence, the uncertainty that always seems to accompany the creative process. It all felt present at once.
The following day brought a different kind of richness.
I reconnected with one of my closest friends from high school—someone who knew me before any of this felt possible. There was something grounding in that, a reminder of where this path began.
Later, I met with a cousin I hadn’t seen since childhood. It felt like looking into a reflection of the past and present at the same time.
Moments like those have a way of softening everything, placing recognition back into the context of relationship and time.
And then came the Quick Draw.
Ninety minutes.
A blank surface.
The porch of the museum filled with people watching, asking questions, leaning in.
There’s no overthinking in a moment like that. Only instinct, trust, and movement. I chose to pour—leaning fully into the process that has shaped so much of my work. The paint moved, settled, shifted in ways both expected and surprising.
Before the final bell rang, we had to frame the work and placed it on display.
Then came the auction.
Each artist stepping forward. Each piece finding its moment.
And mine—created in that brief window of time—found a home that same day.
There’s something deeply meaningful about that exchange. A collector witnessing the creation of a piece and choosing to carry it forward into their life. From first mark to final placement, all in a matter of hours.
It’s immediate. Honest.
And in its own way, incredibly intimate.
Now I’m back in the studio.
The energy of the weekend hasn’t left me—it’s shifted into something quieter, but just as present. A sense of clarity. A renewed commitment to the work. A deeper understanding of what it means to trust the process, even in moments of doubt.
Because the truth is, those moments don’t go away.
But neither does the possibility that something meaningful can come from them.
For those who follow my work, who collect it, who live with it—this weekend is part of that story too. These experiences shape the work that comes next. They deepen it. Refine it. Ask more of it.
And if there’s something you’ve been drawn to—some piece that has stayed with you—there’s a quiet knowing in that worth paying attention to.
The right work has a way of finding the right home.
And I’m grateful, always, to be part of that connection.
