Storied Art

Sher Nyquist, Story and Storied Art Coach, The Broken and Beautiful Collective

The Blank Page

I stared at the empty screen again.

Three times I had tried to write the story of harm, but the words refused to come. What I had were fragments—snapshots of memory with no thread to hold them together. The story felt important, yet the details of that day stayed locked away. I pushed back from my computer and reached for my journal.

I wrote a few words, then—almost without thinking—started sketching a stick-figure scene.

I was not an artist, but I began to make lines and circles, the roughest shapes of people. Slowly, a picture emerged: my abusive father in the act of hurting me. The sketch was crude, messy—sticks and ovals—but it was there.

I left it for a few days, but found myself returning. Each time, I added a line, shaded a face, drew posture and expressions. With every mark, more fragments surfaced.

“Is this true?” I wondered. “Was Mom really there, watching?” I hadn’t remembered that before, but it felt real. I drew her with arms crossed and face turned away. Curiosity stirred. What else might surface if I kept going?

That was the first time I used art as a way into my stories—into the places where shame and fear had locked my voice away.

A sketch of my childhood home brought a flood of forgotten memories—some painful, some sweet.  A herd of retangle cows gathered together under a big oak tree in the pasture spoke of love.  A drawing of an imaginary orange dragon released decades of unwept tears. Sketching a tree brought deep sadness as I remembered hours spent as a young girl in its branches, hidden, away and lonely.

Discovering Color

When I began to paint, something shifted.  I found joy in simply swirling colors together. Sometimes I didn’t even touch the paper—just watched the colors blend, forming something alive and beautiful.

I began seeing differently.

Trees were not just green—they were a dozen shades of green.

The sky was no longer just blue—it was violet, gold, rose, and silver.

Often, mid-conversation with friends, I would stop, point upward with awe, and say, “Look at that sky!” Beauty began to seep into my body, softening the places that had been full of unexpressed sorrow. Art opened me to color. Color awakened awe and pleasure.

Through art, I found a way to access my stories—to bring them into the light where I could seek help, find language, begin to understand, and move further along on my healing path.

I began with stick figures.

Art led me through darkness and pain, and has opened my soul to the radiant light of love.

A Call to Create Through Story Art

If you’ve ever felt stuck in silence, unable to find the words for what you’ve lived through, I invite you to pick up a pencil, a paintbrush, or even a box of crayons. Your art doesn’t have to be “good” to be powerful. Let your hand move, let the colors flow, and see what memories or emotions begin to surface. You may find, as I did, that art can open a doorway—one that leads you through pain, into beauty, and toward the light of your own healing.

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