There’s a certain kind of chaos that I’ve come to love and admire—the kind you find on a Sunday morning in the Esperaza market or on a brisk sunny Wednesday in Quillan. A hundred different scents competing in the air: Moroccan spices, paella cooking in a massive pan, old books, essential oils, and incense. Musicians and artists set up next to stalls of handmade rugs dyed in all sorts of colors and patterns. A woman in a yellow felt dress plays an accordion and sings Edith Piaf next to a man selling wooden spoons he’s crafted and carved by hand. Dogs and children run amuck between the stalls. Everyone talks at once. No one seems in a hurry. It’s messy. It’s colorful. It’s loud. It’s alive.

And somehow, it mirrors exactly where I am in my life.

Try Incognito Mode…

Right now, I’m knee-deep in the process of getting my visa to stay in France. Which one, the VLS-TS or the LVS-T or the Talent Visa? Forms, appointments, recommendations, translations—government websites telling me my U.S. address isn’t valid. Pages locking me out. “Come back in 2 hrs” Reddit threads advising me to try incognito mode, switch browsers, use my phone with Wi-Fi off. stand on my head. Nothing works until, suddenly, it does. Or wait, it doesn’t. It’s enough to make you laugh out loud—or cry—or just say fuck it and go soak up the sun at “The Palace Restaurant” with a beer. Sometimes both, at the same time.

On Other Days…

I’m also “finishing” renovations on the building in the center of Quillan, turning it into a space that will welcome friends, artists, and visitors from all over the world. There are a million decisions to make—about couches, lighting, plumbing, art supplies, budgets. There are lists on top of lists. And just when one thing gets crossed off, three more appear.

And then there’s painting. Staring at a blank page or the view of the River Aude, or the streets in the morning. I feel the same whirlwind. What to focus on? What colors to use? Do I paint the church or the shadows cast by the crazy trees that crawl up the buildings? Do I lead with precision or rough scratchings? Some days, it flows. On other days, I question everything.

It just is.

Each of these things—the market, the visa, the renovation, the painting—all are a creative act on their own. None of them are tidy. All of them involve risk, improvisation, and faith in the outcome—even when that faith wavers or fails. It’s all good. I’m too far down the path to turn back. And why should I?

The market doesn’t try to be perfect. It just is. The beauty is in its layers of messiness—in the way life bursts out between the cracks like a colorful weed, unplanned and wildly vivid. That’s a lesson I’m trying to apply to everything right now. To trust that the rough sketch will yield something meaningful, the conflicting opinions of friends, the indecision over which paper to use or which brush will work, the endless debate over the color of the wash—all of it is part of a process.

What if it works?

And yet, beneath that trust, there’s always some doubt. Daily. Sometimes hourly. A quiet voice asking: Are you really doing this? What if it all falls apart? Then again, what if it works?

But I’ll keep going. Because in spite of the doubt—or maybe because of it—something honest emerges. A decision gets made. A painting takes shape. I meet even more amazing people with similar frequencies. A place on the map slowly becomes more like a home and it all begins to feel real. And I remember that maybe it’s not about doing it right, but just doing it, no matter how messy it gets. Because in the end, hell or high water, I promise myself won’t regret a thing.