My husband became unusually quiet ever since he started his new hobby. Whenever I asked him about it, he would only smile and say it felt “liberating.”
I began to notice colorful smudges on his clothes whenever he returned from the workshop, which only deepened my curiosity.One day, I decided to follow him. To my surprise, I discovered him in a cozy studio, surrounded by a small group of people.
His hands were covered in clay and streaks of bright paint. He wasn’t hiding anything troubling at all—he had joined an art therapy group.When he noticed me in the doorway, his eyes widened. “I didn’t want to tell you because..
I was embarrassed,” he admitted softly. “Work has been overwhelming, and this is the only place where I feel free. Creating something with my hands—it helps me breathe again.
”Relief washed over me, along with guilt for doubting him. I sat quietly and watched as he shaped a lump of clay into a bowl, his shoulders relaxing with every movement. The group’s encouragement made it clear this wasn’t just about art—it was about healing.On the way home, he reached for my hand.
“I thought you’d think I was wasting time,” he said. I smiled through tears. “There’s nothing wasted in something that brings you peace.
I’m proud of you.”Since then, I’ve joined him a few times at the workshop. Watching him create, seeing his quiet joy, reminded me that sometimes the secrets we fear the most are not betrayals—but hidden parts of the soul, waiting for light.
