Through Their Eyes

What began as a hobby slowly became a different way of understanding resilience, instinct, silence, and myself.

For most of my life, my world revolved around numbers, structure, logic, and routines connected to the business world.. Drawing had nothing to do with my education, my career, or the way I saw myself.

At some point, I decided to try something completely unrelated to my field, just as a hobby. I work in English every day, but I think and feel in Spanish all the time. On my to-do list, I wrote one simple word: “pintar.” I had no idea painting and drawing were completely different things.

At first, I wanted to take portrait classes to learn charcoal, but the class was full and the next session was months away. I knew myself well enough to understand that if I waited, I would probably never do it. So I searched for another option and found an acrylic painting class. I had no idea what acrylic painting even was, but I registered anyway.

Something about it immediately felt right.

The red bear was my first acrylic painting.

Later, I finally took portrait classes and realized I didn’t enjoy charcoal at all. It was messy, difficult, and not what I imagined. Later, I started learning perspective, proportions, and observation through drawing classes.That was when animals quietly entered my sketchbook.

At first, I drew them simply because I liked them.. But over time, I noticed something else happening.

Each animal carried a different presence.

A mirror.

Some reflected resilience. Others instinct, silence, adaptability, patience, or freedom. Without planning it, the animals slowly became symbols for things I didn’t know how to explain directly.

The buffalo taught me that sometimes the only way through a storm is to stop running from it.

The owl reminded me that not everything needs noise or external validation to exist.

The fox showed me that survival is also intelligence, discretion, and knowing when to change direction.

The deer taught me something unexpected: nature does not care about perfection. It sheds, rebuilds, changes, and continues anyway.

And the dog reminded me that presence can heal things words never touch.

I don’t try to turn animals into perfect spiritual symbols. I simply observe them.

And through them, I started observing myself differently too.

What began as curiosity slowly became reflection, silence, and healing.

Now, when I draw an animal, I’m not only drawing the animal itself.

I’m drawing the part of the human experience reflected inside it.