Sometimes the body demands release. The kind of therapy that doesn’t speak, doesn’t analyze—only feels. I dipped my feet in paint, pressed them down, and let the prints become proof that I was here. That I was feeling. That I was alive. The black seeps like shadow. The orange burns like fire. Together they whisper of chaos, survival, and the therapy no one speaks about. Play becomes ritual, and ritual becomes exorcism.

But what happens after the first imprint? What grows in the spaces in between? The chaos finds patterns, the mess begins to tell stories, and emotions carve shapes that only reveal themselves later.

Do you see the footprints? Do you feel the play hidden in the pain? What part of you is still waiting to leave its mark?