Rising from the Mud
Sometimes what feels messy or unclear is quietly nourishing who we are becoming.
I was on LinkedIn, connecting with community leaders, when a connection of mine, artist Chaim Simcha, appeared in my feed. He had started a video series about his artwork.
I’m not sure how Chaim Simcha and I first connected, but whenever I see his posts, I feel drawn to reflect on his paintings. There is something in the way he speaks about his work that makes me stop and listen. He does not only speak about the finished piece. He speaks about the process, the uncertainty, and the courage it takes to remain present with something that does not yet feel beautiful, trusting that depth and color may still exist beneath what seems unclear.
He is an abstract artist, a style of art I have not always been accustomed or attuned to. My eye is usually drawn to pieces I can more easily process and understand. Yet within his work, there was a sense of chaos that felt unexpectedly relatable. The layering and covering of a story, only to allow it to rest until it had time to breathe, settle, and reveal its truest self, felt deeply familiar, almost like watching my own story unfold in color and texture.
I have often gravitated toward Impressionism, Renaissance paintings, and artwork that tells a clear story through imagery and form. I suppose this moment taught me something new. Abstract art can tell a story as well, sometimes one that is felt before it is understood.
I sent Chaim Simcha a message asking if I could write about his work and share an image of his painting. He responded by sending me the photograph of the piece along with a resounding yes, a gesture that felt both generous and affirming, allowing his art to become part of a reflection that had already begun to unfold within me.
Immediately, I felt myself pulled away from what I had been doing and drawn toward it. Art lights me up. Learning about art fills a passion in me, a desire to understand, to observe, to feel, something that has lived inside me since childhood.
I watched as he reflected on one of his earliest paintings. He described learning how to mix colors and how, in the process, the canvas began to look muddy and unappealing. Colors that once felt bright and intentional blended into something dull and difficult to recognize. Frustrated by what he saw, he set the painting aside, unsure if anything beautiful could come from it.
Time passed. When the paint dried, he returned to the canvas with a palette knife and began gently scraping away some of the muddiness. What emerged underneath surprised him. Bright, vivid colors that he had not realized were still there. The colors had never disappeared. They had simply been hidden beneath layers that needed patience, time, and care to reveal.
As he shared this story, goosebumps rose along my arms, and I felt an invisible thread pulling me toward it. The connection settled first in my gut, as if I were somehow tethered to the painting itself, recognizing how often growth asks us to look beneath what appears muddied on the surface.
His story mirrored my own. When I first began public speaking, my very first speech was about mud.
“Who here likes mud?” I asked.
The room leaned forward.
“People bathe in mud. Children jump in mud. Would it surprise you to know that I grew up in mud?”
They leaned in with the same curiosity I had felt while listening to the artist.
“Mud is what nourished me. It helped me grow. It holds nutrients and minerals essential for life. I consider myself like the lotus, strong, beautiful, and rising above the mud while still being part of it.”
This was my first speech. I was intentional with what I chose to say, just as I was thoughtful about what I left unsaid. That would be for another time. I understood, even then, that building trust and connection mattered more than sharing the full weight of a difficult childhood, one shaped by trauma, fear, and deep feelings of being alone.
It was not until I began looking back at my own path that I realized I had risen through the mud. Chaim Simcha had learned to work with it, shaping it and revealing what lived beneath it, and I began to understand that I had been doing the same in my own life.
Over time, I have come to understand that many of our most defining experiences can feel messy, heavy, or unclear while we are living through them. When we are standing inside those moments, they rarely feel purposeful. They often feel overwhelming, confusing, or isolating. We may question why they are happening or whether we will find our way through them.
Yet those same experiences often hold the nutrients that shape our resilience, compassion, and strength. They teach us how to listen more deeply, how to extend grace, and how to understand the quiet struggles that others may carry invisibly.
There were seasons in my life when I chose to stay hidden. For a long time, that felt necessary. Protection can be a form of wisdom. Safety sometimes requires quiet spaces where we can gather strength, process what we have experienced, and begin to understand who we are beneath what life has placed on us.
In those quieter seasons, I learned that growth is rarely loud. It often happens slowly, beneath the surface, in moments when we are simply trying to hold ourselves together. We may not recognize it as transformation while it is happening, but something inside us is shifting, strengthening, and preparing to emerge.
Healing and growth often look like gently removing layers. Not all at once. Not forcefully. Just slowly enough to rediscover what has always been there. Each layer we release reveals something familiar and steady, something that reminds us we were never as lost as we once believed.
What I have learned is that the vibrant parts of ourselves are rarely gone. They are often waiting patiently beneath what we have carried, beneath expectations, pain, fear, and stories we may have told ourselves about who we needed to be in order to survive.
When I finally felt safe enough, I began allowing more of my true self to be seen. That process did not happen overnight. It happened in small, quiet choices. Speaking honestly. Showing vulnerability. Allowing imperfection. Trusting that authenticity would be met with connection rather than rejection.
In doing so, I found that shining was not about becoming someone new. It was about returning to who I had been all along.
The lotus does not reject the mud that nourished it. It rises from it, shaped by it, strengthened by it, and still connected to it. Our stories often work the same way. The parts of our lives that once felt heavy or unwanted can become the very foundation that supports our growth, empathy, and purpose.
Today’s reflection:
• What experiences in my life once felt like mud but may have helped nourish my growth?
• What layers might I be carrying that no longer serve me?
• Where do I feel safe enough to be more fully myself?
• How might I honor the parts of my story that shaped my resilience, even if they were difficult to walk through?
Sometimes, what feels heavy or unclear is quietly preparing us to rise.
May you RISE UP in technicolor!
Here is a beautiful and powerful song by Andra Day, Rise Up. May it inspire you to rise each day, even when the path feels heavy, uncertain, or unseen.
Author’s Note
If this story touched something inside you, I’d be honored to hear your reflections.
Whether you’ve lived through chaos, rebuilt your voice, or carried wounds no one else could see, your story matters. Sharing reminds us that we are not alone in the slow, powerful work of becoming.
If this piece resonated, I’d be grateful for a like, a comment, or a share.
And if you’d like to walk this healing journey with me, I invite you to subscribe.
With gratitude,
Chellie 🩷
Chellie Grossman is a Certified Life Coach, Keynote Speaker, and Writer who empowers leaders to reclaim their voice, embrace their strength, and lead with authenticity and purpose.
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What a beautiful piece on growth from the chaos. You described my life where everything is stuck; nothing seems to be progressing. I need to see beyond that and believe this is happening for a reason. That reminder was so needed. Thank you.
Beautiful piece. And the Andra Day song and video are awesome!