When I Found My Colours. Aldona Grupas

 

There were several Lithuanians working at the nursing home. We got along very well and helped each other. Once, after work, I went out with Angelė. We exchanged a few words about the weather and how good it was that the shift was over and we could go for a walk. The weather was truly wonderful. The sun was shining, our mood was good, and it seemed we had left our fatigue behind us when we closed the work door. Angelė said timidly, "I have to tell you where I'm going, but you’ll laugh at me." I promised not to laugh. She said she was going to a drawing lesson. "That’s amazing!" I shouted. "My dream is to paint. Take me, too." Angelė was happy that I reacted that way, and we went to the drawing lesson together. The lesson took place in a large room, filled with easels, drawings, and painting tools. The smell of paint hung in the air. My head was spinning with happiness. I liked everything here the smell of paint, the drawings, and the brushes. The teacher, Anna, welcomed me into the group very kindly. After paying for the course, I sat down at an easel. I don't know how long I sat there looking at the blank sheet. I probably still didn’t believe my dream was coming true. And suddenly, something lit up in my head, and I started to paint. I painted without stopping. The brush glided over the paper like a swan swimming on a lake. The colours matched one another without even thinking. Everything happened on its own. It seemed I had known how to paint for a long time. That day was the happiest for me. I returned home as if on wings.

It seems my life also became brighter and happier from the day I started painting. I attended the courses for a few months, but unfortunately, they ended because Anna left to live in Bali. But I didn’t give up. The beginning was made. I bought supplies and painted at home. The walls of the apartment were covered with paintings, and there were wrapped paintings behind the bed. My room looked like a gallery.

One evening, when it was quietly drizzling outside the window, while browsing YouTube, I stumbled upon videos that teach how to paint for free. At that moment, something trembled inside. When I saw that the lessons were conducted by Igor Sakharov—a wonderful, calm, patient painter curiosity took over me. His voice was soft, his hand movements certain. I watched his strokes as if hypnotized, marveling at how life was born in his hands the colours poured, blended, and there it was: a painting. "I want to be able to paint like that, too," I thought, and felt a timid hope being born.

That was how my first steps in art began. Watching Sakharov’s lessons, I carefully tried to replicate his techniques. I had a white canvas, brushes, and paints in front of me, and I heard a quiet voice saying: "Just try." And I tried. The first paintings were born timidly, with mistakes and doubt, but with an unfeigned joy after all, these were creations of my hands, of my heart.

The Big Challenge

My son’s birthday was approaching. A thought was stirring in my heart: "I will paint his portrait." It would be a special gift not just an object, but a sign of love and heart. But when I mentioned this to my painting teacher, she stopped me: "It’s too early for you; painting portraits is very difficult." Those words struck right to the heart. I was even offended. Something in me, long forgotten but still alive, rose up. In my childhood, I used to draw people’s faces my grandmother would tell my mother that I had a talent for it. Back then, nobody cared, but now now I knew: I can.

My friend, with whom I shared this hesitation, just smiled: "Don’t listen. Try."

And I did. Once again, I immersed myself in Sakharov’s lessons; I studied every step of his and listened to every piece of advice. I knew that even if the portrait didn’t turn out well, my son would tell the truth whether it was good or bad. That freed me: I wasn’t afraid of criticism.

I started painting from a photo; I sat for a long time on every detail, every shadow. I registered in a Christian Artists' Club, where I shared my work. I was surprised—they accepted me there, supported me, and advised me on what to fix. These were my angels. When I finally finished the portrait, I felt relief. "I succeeded," I said quietly to myself, looking at the painting where my love, my efforts, and my faith were shining. My son accepted it with a smile and said, "Mom, this is really good."

At that moment, my heart filled with light. I had done what I had promised myself.

An Attempt to Know Myself

Inspired, I decided to try to paint myself. But this turned out to be a completely different challenge. I painted for a month, but I could not achieve a result that I liked. Looking at my reflection on the canvas, I understood more and more: I do not know myself.

It was hard, almost painful work. Painting yourself is like trying to look into a mirror whose image keeps disappearing. Eventually, I decided: I won’t paint myself.

But after this process, I learned an important lesson: when you paint freely, without shame, without fearing criticism, you can reach perfection. However, when you try to see yourself, you realize how little you know yourself. This was my first encounter with psychology, asking: who am I really?

I put the brushes aside and looked at the unfinished self-portrait for a long time. It wasn't the painting that troubled me. It was the feeling that I still didn't know the woman looking back at me.

That realization stayed with me. Without noticing it, painting had become more than a hobby. Every canvas uncovered another question about me. Every colour revealed an emotion I hadn't known how to express with words.

I didn't realise it then, but this was the beginning of a much deeper journey.

Through colours, forms, and the freedom to create, a person seemingly rediscovers their inner "self," allows themselves to feel joy and peace, and to live a brighter life. Creative activity, especially painting, helps to release accumulated emotions, reduces stress, strengthens self-esteem, and gives meaning to everyday life.

Looking back now, I'm grateful I didn't laugh at Angelė that afternoon. If I had, I might never have discovered the colours that were waiting for me. Sometimes those quiet callings to paint, write, play music, or dance are the straightest path to inner peace and true life fulfilment. No matter what age you are or what trials you have experienced creativity is always an open door to a new beginning. Allow yourself to dream, create, and shine, even if you feel timid at first. After all, the most important thing is not the perfect result, but the freedom and joy that arise from the creative process.

Sometimes life seems to paint us in grey shades routine, worries, and losses. However, a palette lies within every person bright, vibrant, and waiting to be discovered. This story reminds us that one step, one bold stroke is enough and life fills with colour again. Creativity is not just art it is the language of our soul, a path to liberation, inner peace, and the true self.

Even if it seems that everything in life is late, that dreams remained somewhere in childhood know that it is never too late to start. Even the smallest step toward a dream can awaken an extraordinary joy and faith in you.

Allow yourself to create without fear, without judgment, without limits. Because every stroke, every colour created, is not just a painting on canvas, but a new flash of light in your own life. Just take the brush and boldly start painting your new, more beautiful world.

Epigraph: "Sometimes, in order to regain yourself, you must first lose everything you were until then."

Studies can begin with a desire to help others, but in reality, they become a journey into oneself. My path to psychology was neither straight nor easy, but every turn in it had meaning.

Returning from Lithuania, I felt uneasy guilt was accumulating inside me. My psychologist advised me not to go to the wedding, but I did not listen to her. I was afraid even to call her and admit that I had done the opposite of what she recommended. For three months, I cried and could not pick up the phone. Fear, shame, and guilt everything intertwined into one huge knot. The only thing that kept me afloat was neurographica.

Each drawing was like a confession on paper. I cried, I drew, I breathed through the lines. The pain poured out into the drawing slowly turned into peace.

At that time, I was working as a caregiver, looking after an elderly woman. Her family was very good, caring, and loving. I felt as if she was my mother, and I could give her what I hadn't managed to give to my own mother. I cared for her with all my heart and soul. For me, this was not a job, but a kind of penance, a tribute.

However, in January, the elderly lady passed away, and I lost not only the job but also the warmth that had sustained me. Finding new clients was difficult.

Then, finally, I gathered my courage and called the psychologist. She welcomed me warmly, without reproach, and advised me to start not only drawing myself but also sharing neurographica with others to lead group drawing sessions and teach.

She even suggested people from her community who were interested in neurographica. A group of 50 people formed. I was in shock. It was a huge responsibility. She helped me plan the entire course, the flow of lessons, and the structure. The training was free of charge.

I conducted the first lesson paralyzed by fear. My legs were shaking; my face was stiff as stone. I thought: "If I stay alive after this broadcast, it will be a miracle." After turning on the camera, I couldn't even look at the viewers. I lowered it directly onto the paper so they would see only my hands, only the drawing. But the people were kind. They were supportive, wrote messages, and shared their impressions. That strengthened me.

After a few months of free sessions, the time came to ask for a fee. Only two people remained in the group. But that didn't stop me I led the training for those two, sincerely and devotedly. The results were stunning. Neither I nor my clients expected such a strong emotional shift.

I was increasingly drawn to psychology. I felt that I needed to deepen my knowledge. The most important thing was to understand myself why I end up in such painful life situations. I felt that I was still lacking knowledge. The intensive search began.

"Sometimes the most painful blows in life become our greatest teachers. The body often speaks what the soul does not dare to say. When we can no longer move because of pain, it is a sign to stop and look at ourselves anew.

Falling, illness, fear these are not the end, but an invitation to start anew. It is precisely in critical situations that we decide to change. When we dare to accept help, to reach out a hand, to say: 'I can no longer do this,' that is exactly when healing begins.

This story shows how important it is to be open to miracles, even if they knock on doors that are not the brightest. And how important it is even at a late stage in life to allow yourself to dream, to change, and to choose yourself. Because it is never too late to be reborn."