Confessions of a Zero-Chill Maximalist: The Tension Between Impulse and Discernment

If you’ve spent any time around my work, you already know I don’t do subtle. I’m a maximalist painter ,florals that fill every inch of the canvas, color layered on color, no empty space left unconsidered. That’s not a style choice exactly. It’s just how I’m wired. Whatever has my attention gets all of it.

And for a long time I thought that was just the gift. The thing that made the work alive.

What I’ve been learning , slowly, and honestly still in progress  is that impulse is only half of it.

I’ve been watching the Hulu series about Carolyn Bessette and JFK Jr., and I cannot stop thinking about her. Not him. Her. The way she carries herself. That coolness. That composure. The way she doesn’t rush toward anything even when most women absolutely would have.

There’s a scene where he’s pursuing her , this man, by every account the most eligible bachelor in the country , and she won’t even give him her number. She just walks away. Unbothered. Like she had all the time in the world.

I watched that and thought: I was never that girl.

When I was younger and dating, I had zero chill. None. I would put my whole heart on the table immediately. I would sit on my hands telling myself don’t call, don’t call, don’t call ………and then call. It wasn’t that I didn’t know better. It’s that the impulse always felt true. It felt like holding back would have been the performance.

And then it hit me … those same impulses? That same inability to hold back, that same urge to pour everything out right now before the moment passes? I’m still working with them. Just in a different place.

In the studio.

Here’s what it looks like in my painting.

I’ll step back from a canvas and I can see clearly that it needs to breathe. The composition needs space. The eye needs somewhere to rest. I know this. And within minutes — sometimes within seconds — the urge is back. Another flower. Another layer. One more hit of color in that corner that’s been sitting quiet.

The impulse feels like the painting asking for it. It feels like intuition, like the work pulling me forward. But sometimes it’s not the painting asking. Sometimes it’s just me, not ready to leave something unresolved. Not ready to trust what’s already there.

The difference, I’ve realized, isn’t talent. It’s tolerance.

Tolerance for space. Tolerance for the unresolved. Tolerance for not immediately acting on the urge to fix, fill, or intensify.

Impulse in creative work is powerful and necessary. It’s where the confidence comes from. It’s what makes you commit to a bold brushstroke instead of hedging. It’s what gives the work its voltage. You don’t want to lose it. You need it.

But discernment is what impulse needs to become something whole. It’s the part that asks … is this serving the piece, or is this serving my discomfort with the quiet? Am I adding because it belongs here, or because I don’t know how to stop?

For a long time I thought holding back meant being dishonest. Like restraint was the opposite of authenticity. What I understand now is that discernment isn’t restraint. It’s not the opposite of impulse. It’s impulse with awareness underneath it. It’s feeling the full pull of the urge and then pausing , just for a moment to ask if it belongs.

That pause is everything.

I don’t think this is unique to painting. I think every creative person who works with intensity knows this tension. The growth isn’t about becoming someone who feels less. It’s about becoming someone who can hold more, specifically, the space.

Maybe Carolyn Bessette was never holding back at all. Maybe that stillness was just genuinely who she was. But watching her made me see something in myself I hadn’t quite named before.

In her version of the story, she walks away and leaves him wondering. In my version—the "zero chill" version—I’m the girl who would have given him my number, told him my favorite childhood memory, and probably planned our first three dates, simply because I couldn’t stand the tension of the unknown.

I’m realizing I’ve been doing the exact same thing with my paintbrushes.

Negative space isn't emptiness. It’s the decision to trust that what you’ve already said—or painted—is enough. It’s the structure that actually allows the intensity to mean something. I’m still a student of the pause, and I’m still learning to sit on my hands in the studio.

Because sometimes, the strongest move you can make is the one you have the courage to leave unmade.