I think I’m not alone when I describe last year as an absolute barren desert of creativity and joy. On a personal level, my graphic novel memoir pitch went nowhere, every comic I made felt like swimming against a riptide and I couldn’t even muster the desire to draw.

I hadn’t realized how much I had tied my self-worth, my understanding of who I was, up in my art. It didn’t feel dangerous while I was crafting my identity as an artist — I was happy to define myself that way. Making art was what I loved doing the most, what I loved most about myself. But when my creative spirit and joy dried up in the face of anxiety and depression, it was as close to an existential crisis as I’ve ever come. If I didn’t create any art, what was the meaning of my life?