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These pins 'Get Out' carry so many meanings for me. Today, as I reflect on my time in art school, they feel especially resonant. The pins depict canines desperately trying to escape a box, a box that might be self-made, imposed by society, or both. After all, one rarely exists without the other.

When I started art school, I was a different person than I am today. Looking back, I wonder how things might have been different if I had the skills and self-awareness I’ve gained since then. As a highly neurodivergent person, I struggled with invisible walls, barriers within myself that made it hard to express or even fully understand who I was. These struggles weren’t new. Even before art school, in high school and other environments, I often felt isolated. I couldn’t communicate or express myself in a way people seemed to understand.

That persistent loneliness led me into unhealthy situations, ones I’m still untangling and accepting. When I was very young, I became involved with an older, neurodiverse adult who was also deeply damaged and alone. I struggled to connect with people my own age because of how isolated I felt as a neurodivergent person, and his love seemed like something I couldn’t find elsewhere. In many ways, it was real. But it wasn’t good. It wasn’t right. It’s a complicated mess that no one seems to understand beyond the surface-level reactions: “That’s gross” or “That’s wrong.” And while those things are true, the situation was far more layered. It was born from two deeply lonely people trying to fill voids they didn’t know how to face.

While this feels like a detour from the topic of art school, it’s all part of the same thread: a lifetime of feeling misunderstood and unseen, and the complicated ways I tried to navigate that pain.

Art school, in many ways, amplified these struggles. It’s not that I want to blame art school entirely. It was mutual interaction, between me and the system. But I came in with certain hopes. I longed for a place that felt like home, where I would meet like-minded people and be embraced for who I was. Instead, I found an environment where intellect, pretentiousness, and an obsession with dissecting art seemed more important than passion, joy, or the raw drive to create.

Art, to me, has always been a refuge, a space where I could be authentic without needing to justify myself. In art school, I was met with something entirely different. The teachers seemed locked into their own boxes, continuing the rigid structures of the schools and galleries they’d been shaped by. It felt like they couldn’t see or value anything outside of that mold.

I struggled because I couldn’t explain why I made the art I did, I just did. And yet, there was relentless pressure to intellectualize everything. They wanted a rationale for every line, every theme, every choice. For someone like me, a visual thinker who often can’t find the words for my emotions, that demand felt suffocating. I’ve always struggled with the idea of intelligence as it’s commonly understood, measured by how well you can articulate your thoughts in a neat, linear way. I often saw myself as “stupid” because of my silence, or my chaotic, ADD-fueled way of jumping from one thought to another, made it hard for people to follow me. They didn’t understand how deeply I felt and thought in images, patterns, and emotions, and I didn’t have the tools to explain it. It wasn’t until much later that I learned there are different ways of thinking, and that my way of processing the world is just as valid, but they’re so often misunderstood or dismissed in society. That dismissal reinforced the feeling of inadequacy I carried for so long. It’s something I still struggle with today, untangling that internalized belief and reminding myself that intelligence isn’t one-size-fits-all.

Even worse, there was no empathy. While I don’t expect teachers to understand every student’s trauma, or even what it means to be neurodivergent (I certainly had no idea!), the complete lack of care was devastating. Many of us came in carrying pain or challenges that we didn’t have the tools to handle yet, but instead of support, I was met with ridicule and it made me even more afraid to trust people. Art school was supposed to nurture creativity, but instead, I felt like they were trying to shape me into their idea of what “art” should be.

That environment, with its rigid structures and narrow perspectives, left me feeling incredibly disabled and deeply “not enough.” And yet, I realize now that I was trapped in more than one box. There was the box of art school itself, but also the mental box I’d put myself in masking, trying to fit in, and forcing myself to meet expectations that didn’t align with who I was.

Tearing down those walls is still something I’m working on, and it’s not easy. Years of feeling misunderstood and isolated don’t go away overnight. Therapy and self-reflection and psychedelics have helped, but there are moments when I still feel those old barriers.

'Get Out' is not just about leaving art school, it’s about escaping the constraints of every box, internal and external. It’s about reclaiming my authenticity, embracing who I am, and finding spaces where I can truly belong.

Despite all the isolation and struggles, I find it kind of beautiful that I even hoped and longed for things like acceptance, connection, and nurturing. It’s a reminder that you have to believe in those possibilities, even if they look different from what you’d imagined. I realized I have to deeply love and accept myself most of all, to be able to find what I'm looking for.

Finding them might not come in the ways you expect, but believing in their existence, even in new and unexpected forms, is a kind of resilience in itself.