You know that feeling when you sign up for something with pure, unadulterated enthusiasm, that almost childlike belief in your own capabilities, and then a few months in, you’re just… empty? Like a well that’s run dry, and you’re looking at the bucket, knowing you *should* be able to draw water, but there’s just nothing there. That’s where I am right now. I was commissioned to paint a mural for our local house of worship – a big one, for the community hall, depicting scenes of divine grace and spiritual communion. And I said yes, obviously. It felt like a calling, after years of feeling creatively stifled, lost in the endless cycle of feeding small humans and scrubbing sticky floors. A chance to be an *artist* again, not just a *mom*. The initial meetings were great. Everyone was so supportive, so excited. They brought me scripture passages, talked about the feeling of peace and solace they hoped the mural would evoke. We discussed color palettes – soft blues, ethereal golds, the kind of light that just radiates quiet hope. I sketched, I planned, I felt that familiar hum of creative energy. For the first few weeks, I was unstoppable. I worked during nap times, after bedtime, fueled by caffeine and the sheer exhilaration of having a purpose beyond domesticity. My husband was thrilled to see me happy again. My kids, bless their oblivious hearts, just wanted to know if I could paint a dinosaur in the clouds. But then, as I started transferring the designs to the wall, something shifted. We’re talking about angels, saints, a kind of benevolent, overarching presence that watches over humanity. And the more I tried to embody that, to translate that feeling of *divine connection* into brushstrokes, the more I felt… a void. It’s not that I’m an atheist, not exactly. I believe in *something*. But this specific, overt representation of a benevolent deity, it just feels… foreign. Like trying to speak a language you once knew, but all the words have slipped away. I’d stand there, brush in hand, staring at the blank expanses where the face of grace should be, and I’d feel nothing. No inspiration. No sense of connection. Just a sort of clinical detachment. I’ve tried everything. I’ve listened to hymns, read the passages again, meditated (or tried to, as much as a perpetually exhausted parent can). I’ve looked at other religious art, searching for that spark. But it’s like my aesthetic sense is there, my technical skill is there, but the *affective* component, the emotional resonance that should be fueling this, is utterly absent. It’s making me question everything. My faith, yes, but more acutely, my own capacity for empathy, for experiencing those deeper, transcendent emotions that art is supposed to tap into. Am I just… shallow? Or burned out? Is this what happens when your identity gets so thoroughly subsumed by the demands of others? You lose the ability to feel, truly feel, anything that isn’t directly tied to immediate survival or the well-being of your dependents? It’s a kind of emotional anesthesia, I think. A blunting. The irony is, everyone expects this mural to be a testament to *my* faith, *my* connection. And I’m standing there, meticulously rendering a cherub’s wing, all the while feeling like an imposter. Like a replicant, mimicking human emotion without actually possessing it. The congregation is so excited. They stop by, marvel at the progress. “It’s just beautiful,” they say. “You can really feel the spirit.” And I smile, nod, murmur my thanks, while inside I’m screaming, “What spirit? Where? Show it to me!” It’s not just the mural, honestly. It’s this creeping sense of inauthenticity that’s started to permeate other areas of my life too. Like when I’m playing with my kids and I *know* I should be fully present, fully joyful, but there’s this undercurrent of… performance. Or when I’m talking to my husband about his day, and I’m listening, I’m responding, but it feels like I’m reading lines from a script. Like I’m observing my own life from a slight remove, an anthropological study of a person I used to be. The deadline is approaching. I can’t just stop. This is a commitment, a public one. And the shame of admitting I just… can’t connect, I can’t feel what I’m supposed to feel, is too immense. So I keep painting. I keep trying to synthesize emotions I don’t possess, to create a visual representation of something I can’t locate within myself. And every brushstroke feels heavier than the last. Sometimes you just wonder if you’ve broken something inside yourself, something essential, and there’s no way to put it back together.