where i go when the world gets loud

There are times when the world starts to get loud, barely announcing itself as it arrives quietly, stacking in the deepest corner of my chest and presenting itself as a dead weight that makes everything feel heavier than it should. At times, it sounds like deadlines echoing in my head, like expectations asking for a sense of security and direction that I have not yet learned, and like the constant pressure to have a clear and defined sense of who I am without having the chance to truly explore myself. In those moments, the noise doesn’t always come from the outside; rather, it becomes an echo living within me.

And when that happens, I always go there — back to my art.

I never noticed how important it was until I found myself consumed by my thoughts, and the movement of opening my notebook became almost mechanical. I get lost among blank pages that do not demand or pressure me, but instead patiently wait for the first marks to be made, and it is there that I find a moment to breathe.

Growing up as a woman sometimes feels like learning how to exist in a world that is constantly demanding and not designed for you. We are told to be confident, but not too much, so we do not appear arrogant. Passionate, but composed. Creative, but more practical. The instructions contradict one another, and at some point, in the middle of following everything step by step, it becomes easy to lose our essence and what we truly feel and believe. The noise is made of trying to fit into a mold in which, sometimes, we simply do not belong.

Art is where I allow myself to not be perfect, to not rush, and to leave things unfinished if I need to.

Sometimes it looks like writing — phrases and thoughts as fleeting as stars in the sky, which may lack meaning, punctuation, or structure, but when they are placed onto paper, they give me a sense of relief. Other times, it looks like drawing without a reference image, letting my heart guide each stroke without thinking too much, allowing myself to be carried away until every line feels like a piece of sky in which I find joy. Drawings full of colors that may not represent anything concrete, but that still hold meaning in the end.

There was a time when I believed creativity had to be productive in order to be valuable. That it had to be perfect, liked by everyone, and worthy of being shown. However, the louder the world became, the more I learned that art can also be a place to rest, to reflect, and to be oneself without instructions to follow. A place where we don’t have to explain or justify ourselves. Where emotions are not an obstacle, but a resource.

When everything becomes chaotic, my art seems to slow time down, making it almost imperceptible. The noise softens into something more manageable. Through my teenage years as a girl, I have learned that optimism does not always mean feeling “happy.” Sometimes, optimism is choosing to be gentle with yourself, even when things feel like they are falling apart. It is trusting that confusion does not mean failure, but growth.

It exists in the moments where I allow myself to be sensitive in a world that often mistakes sensitivity for weakness. Where I choose to cry instead of silence, and where I choose creativity over hiding, as a way of understanding that my emotions do not need to be minimized to fit into an absurd and impossible narrative.

There are nights when the world feels especially overwhelming. On those nights, I return to simple things: doing my skincare, my favorite music playing softly in the background, a lamp instead of bright lights, and pages slowly filling. These small acts feel like celebrations in their own way. They remind me that I am allowed to care deeply and to slow down whenever I need to.

Through my art, I have learned that my inner world deserves attention, just as I give attention to deadlines, homework, and the challenge of maintaining an organized routine. That my thoughts and feelings are worth translating, even if they do not make sense right away.

What I love most about returning to my art is that it never asks me to be finished. It meets me exactly where I am. Whether I feel confident or unsure, inspired or exhausted, my art holds space for all of it. You can see proof of that: there are times when my lines are freer and imperfect, and that is because I may not feel inspired or I am simply tired. That consistency feels like safety. It feels like home.

As a teen girl, it can feel as though the future is always watching, waiting for us to choose a path and stay on it. But my art reminds me that paths can be explored slowly, that you can enjoy the process of the journey and what you create along the way more than the achievement at the end. That becoming is not a competition, but a way to look inward. That it is okay to change direction, to experiment, and to grow quietly in your own time instead of blooming all at once.

I have come to see my creativity not as an escape, but as a return — to myself, to my voice, to my inner world. It is where I remember that optimism can exist even in uncertainty. That celebration does not have to be loud to be real or meaningful; that it can live in small things like journaling, reflecting, listening to music, or simply doing something that fills us.

The world will continue to grow louder. Expectations will continue to rise. New pressures will appear. But now, I know where to go when that happens. I return to my art — where noise becomes expression, chaos becomes color, and I am allowed to exist without needing to prove myself to anyone.

And that place — quiet, creative, and deeply mine — is where I go when the world gets loud.

Small Note: Hi! My first language is Spanish, so the text might sound a bit robotic (or have some grammatical errors) because I translated everything. I would really appreciate any advice or opinions.