When I was first diagnosed with Parkinson’s, I wasn’t sure what it would mean for my art.
My hands are my tools. My mobility is part of the process.
And there was this quiet, growing fear whispering beneath the surface: What if I can’t keep creating the way I used to?
There’s no cure for Parkinson’s. And no clear timeline. No way to predict how quickly or slowly it will unfold. That uncertainty is its own weight, something you learn to carry day by day. But here’s the unexpected truth: Parkinson’s has taken things from me, yes—but it’s also given me something I never anticipated.
Perspective. Depth. A deeper reverence for the moments I do get to create.
The way I paint has changed. Some days, the tremors make it hard to hold the brush steady. Some days, I need more rest between sessions. Some days, I have to leave the studio before I’m ready—because my body asks me to.
But the heart of the work? That hasn’t changed.
If anything, it’s stronger. Each new piece feels more sacred, more alive, more urgent in a beautiful way. When I paint now, I’m not just chasing inspiration. I’m preserving it. Capturing something real before it fades. Each canvas becomes a love letter to the moment, and a quiet act of defiance. A way of saying, I’m still here. I’m still creating.
Recently, I’ve started giving myself permission to slow down. To take little weekend trips out to Hana—where everything softens. I used to power through everything. Push past the fatigue. Ignore the signs. But now I’m learning to listen. To rest. To let the ocean and the quiet and the trees work their healing. On a recent trip, something shifted. I came home with new inspiration, something I didn’t even know I was waiting for. A new piece now lives on the easel because I gave myself the time to breathe.
And through all of this—you’ve been here.
So many of you have asked how to help. And truly, it’s not always about buying a piece (though, yes, that helps keep this dream alive). It’s about something more meaningful.
It’s about walking into the gallery and saying hello. It’s sharing my work with a friend. It’s a kind message, a heartfelt note, a hug when you see me in town. It’s remembering that behind every canvas is a woman navigating an uncertain diagnosis the best she can. Brush in hand, hope in heart.
Every day I get to walk into my studio and pick up a brush feels like a gift. And every piece that leaves this space carries a little more of that story now.
So if you’ve ever wondered what helps—it’s you.
Your kindness. Your support. Your presence.
Thank you for being part of this journey. For holding space for both the beauty and the hard. For helping me continue doing what I love.
The gallery is open by appointment only,
so let’s plan your visit! Simply call me at 808-281-3108 to schedule your showing. Not on island? Shop my prints and originals online anytime.
With aloha,
Kim