A Year That Cracked Me Open
There are years that pass in a blur,
and then there are years that crack you open.
This was one of those years.
I was cracked open like an egg.
Yellow yolk dripping down my body—
thick, warm, impossible to contain.
Hansa yellow.
My yellow.
The one I use in my paintings.
The one that feels like sun.
In my studio, in Martinez California, my happy place.
I set up my paper, I pin a piece to the wall, I mix my yellow paint, add some water so it loosens up. I smell opening and expression.
My eyes feel a rush of lightness as my brush glides over the paper; yellow drips slide down and drip on the floor as if they were meant to be there.
Bright.
Alive.
Still there… even when everything else feels like too much.
The washing machine beeps.
The dryer stops.
Time to switch the laundry.
Home Again.
Again.
And again.
And again.
There is something about that repetition that keeps me tethered.
Even when I hate it—
I need it.
I spent most of this year inside a classroom,
holding space for kids who are trying to exist in a world
that doesn’t always fit them.
Kids who need more time.
More patience.
More understanding.
Kids who, in many ways, are braver than most adults I know.
It was my first time having chairs thrown at me.
Water bottles.
I saw a child in so much anguish—
not yellow, not light—
red.
Seeing red.
And something in me broke open again.
That egg cracking.
That yellow spilling everywhere.
But this time it didn’t feel like light.
It felt like I was losing something.
Sinking.
Deeper.
And deeper.
How do I hold all of this?
How do I help them
without losing myself?
Is there enough yellow inside me
to keep shining
while I’m absorbing so much of their pain?
I missed my studio.
I missed the quiet.
The canvas waiting.
The feeling of picking up Hansa yellow
and placing it—intentionally—on the surface.
Not spilled.
Not accidental.
Not leaking out of me.
But chosen.
Placed.
Bold.
Alive.
I haven’t really been back since my fall show.
And that absence…
has its own kind of ache.
Some days I came home
and went straight to bed.
Still in my clothes.
Under the covers.
Answering emails I shouldn’t have answered.
Trying to hold everything together
from a place that had nothing left.
I thought about quitting more than once.
Maybe three times.
Maybe more.
And yet—
alongside my students—
I kept working.
We did social emotional lessons.
We wrote.
We tried again.
And I did it with them.
Not above them.
With them.
I started therapy.
Every week.
I fought for myself
the same way I fight for my students.
And slowly—
I realized something uncomfortable:
I was asking them to do hard things every day.
And I had stopped doing that for myself.
So I signed up to climb a mountain.
A real one. Near Mammoth Lakes.
With ropes.
Ice picks.
Fear.
I signed the waiver.
I paid the fee.
I said yes.
I’m 55.
My body has stories now.
Diagnoses.
Fears I didn’t used to carry.
Family history that sits heavy in my chest.
But something in me shifted.
I don’t want to live afraid anymore.
I want the sun.
I want the yellow.
I want the climb.
I’ve been training.
At Orangetheory Fitness
On treadmills.
On inclines that burn.
At Gravity Vault
Where I’ve learned that strength
is not the same thing as confidence.
I took a class and had my worst fall.
And ever since—
I hesitate.
I question every step.
Every hold.
Am I doing this right?
Which feels familiar.
Because that’s what this year has been.
Am I doing this right—
as a teacher?
as an artist?
as a leader?
as a mom?
And still—
I kept going.
I kept choosing light.
Even when it felt thin.
There is still a stain of that slight yellow tint.
The stain that makes you wonder, when did that happen?
Can I excavate it and make it bright again?
I kept believing that something better is possible—
for my students,
for my school,
for myself.
Some days I got it right.
Some days I didn’t.
But I didn’t stop.
And now I’m here.
At the edge of something new.
Training to climb higher than I ever have—
and realizing
I’ve been climbing all along.
I used to write more.
I even wrote a book once—Naptime Paintings —
in a different season of my life.
I stopped writing
because life got full.
Because I wasn’t sure what I had to say.
But maybe this is it.
Not the mountain.
Not the perfect version of anything.
But the crack.
The spill.
The mess.
And the choice—
to take that yellow
and place it back into the world
on purpose.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 