Turning the Page: Making Smoosh Art from the Pages That Hurt

I’ve always been a planner and journal junkie.

There’s something comforting about documenting life. Writing it down, color-coding it, making it tangible. My shelves are full of old notebooks and used-up planners, and I rarely throw them away. They feel like little time capsules, each one holding pieces of me I don’t want to lose. My shelves are also full of unused and unvisited notebooks and planners waiting patiently for their perfect moment and purpose.

But this one?

This planner came from one of the darkest, most toxic years of my life.

A job that drained me.
A boss who bullied me and so many others.
A slow, constant erosion of self-worth disguised as “professionalism.”

Every page of that book tracked more than deadlines. It tracked dissociation. Burnout. Survival.

And still, I couldn’t bring myself to toss it.
Not because I wanted to remember the pain.
But because I needed to transform it. This planner wasn’t special in the comforting sense. It was special in the way a scar is, proof that something happened. I didn’t know when I would address it, but I knew that I had to.

So, I grabbed some paint.
Smeared it across the page.
Closed the book.
Pressed down.
And opened it again.

And just like that, something shifted. I’m lying, but I’m not. It took several long moments of staring. Reflecting. Looking, searching, and seeking. That’s the point, though.

Smooshing Paint and Letting Go

There’s a technical name for what I did:
Ink blot. Mirror painting. Fold-over technique. Smoosh art.

I just call it what it was: closing the book and seeing what shows up.

I laid down paint directly onto one page - thick, unblended, careless.
Then I closed the planner. Let the pressure do its thing.
And when I opened it again, I wasn’t looking at pain anymore.
I was looking at possibility. There’s power in possibility.

The paint transferred in wild, weird, and unexpected ways.
One side held the original.
The other, a reflection. Imperfect, fragmented, beautiful.

No two halves were the same, but they were undeniably connected.
Like a memory and the way it warps over time.
Like trauma and the way it carries forward, even after the moment has passed.

This isn’t about “making art.” It’s about taking a painful story and shifting it into moments of learning and growth.

There was power in the pressure.
Symbolism in the symmetry.
Relief in the release.

What I See in the Paint

On the left page…weight. Heaviness.
Shades of blue built up like layers of armor. Like all the masks I wore (still wear at times) to survive.
Faint red streaks, barely visible in most places. Old wounds. Unaddressed fears, emotions, and resentments.
This side felt like the “then.” The coping. The covering up.

On the right page…light.
Still messy. Messier even, maybe. But with movement and space.
The colors didn’t disappear; they just reorganized.
This side feels like a possibility. Like what’s next. Not fully formed, not fully understood, but real.
It’s not resolution, but it’s movement.
It’s not peace, but it’s potential.
This is the part where things begin to shift. Not because the pain is gone. Not because I’m over it (clearly, I’m not!). But because I’m not holding it or viewing it in the same way anymore.

The Symbols That Found Me (and the psychology/science behind them)

The more I stared at the pages, the more they started to reveal themselves. This is such an enormous part of this process. A part that’s often skimmed over. But the staring at the pages part. The different perspectives from different angles, different lighting, different MINDSET at different times parts. So much is learned. So much is revealed. This is where insight LIVES!

Psychology calls this projective perception. When your brain assigns meaning to something ambiguous (think ink blots or abstract art) based on your inner world. It’s the same principle behind the Rorschach test, but in art therapy, it’s not about diagnosis; it’s about discovery.

There’s also something called neuroception, which is our brain’s ability to detect safety or threat without conscious awareness. When we sit with an image (or anything, really) long enough, our nervous system starts to respond to it, reflect through it, and speak through it.

I outlined what I see, because these aren’t just shapes.
They are reflections of something deeper. Something I’ve been carrying.

A Butterfly

• Transformation. Metamorphosis. Emergence.

• The part of me that survived and changed.

Angel Wings

• Grief and protection, existing side-by-side.

• Maybe my inner protector. Maybe the person I needed back then.

A Dolphin

• Joy. Depth. The ability to navigate hard emotional waters.

• A reminder that even in trauma, there was still play in me.

A Fish

• Subconscious emotion and intuition surfacing.

• Things I hadn’t fully processed, finally taking shape.

A Baby Crawling

• New beginnings. Vulnerability.

• The rawness of starting over after being torn down.

Meaning shows up in weird and wonderous ways, doesn’t it?

That’s what happens when we stop trying to control the story and let it speak for itself.

Why This Matters

So many of us hold onto the past. Hi, it’s me. Past holder onto-er. Not because we want to, but because we don’t know what to do with it.

Burning it feels too violent.
Burying it feels too passive.
Keeping it untouched keeps us stuck in the same damn story.

This approach, though, is something different. It’s not about erasing the past and the things that happened. It’s not even about trying to find beauty in it (my original intent). It’s about letting it change. To be something else. The same thing I’m doing right here, right now.

Want to Try It?

You don’t need to be an artist. Seriously, I sometimes feel like I need to climb a mountain and scream. This is NOT about being an artist.
You just need something that holds meaning. A journal, a letter, a planner, even a random page you’ve been avoiding.

You’ll need:

• Acrylic or tempera paint (anything that transfers)

• A surface you can close (book, journal, sketchpad)

• A willingness to make a mess and let it matter

Smear the paint.
Close the book.
Press down.
Open it again.

Then ask yourself:
What do I see now?
What changed?
What stayed the same?
What am I ready to release?

Final Thought

I don’t know if I’ll finish these particular pages.
I don’t know if I need to. There are still so many pages in this planner that need possibilities added to them.
But if I do finish them, I’m sure I’ll discover something fun to share with you, so stay tuned.

Because maybe healing isn’t always about finishing.

Maybe it’s just about starting.

One page.
One mess.
One moment of seeing things differently.

Want Support Navigating Your Own Unfinished Pages?

This isn’t just art—it’s part of the work I do inside my Resilient by Design coaching framework.

If you’re feeling stuck in burnout, emotional overload, or the pressure to hold it all together… you don’t need another surface-level solution. You need space to breathe, tools that meet your brain where it’s at, and support that actually sees you.

That’s what Resilient by Design is built for.

Together, we use reflective tools like smoosh art, body-awareness strategies, and real-world coaching—not to “fix” you, but to help you reconnect with the parts of you that already know how to survive and grow.

Learn more about my 1:1 coaching here

Let’s start with the page you’re on now.
Messy. Honest. Still open.

About the Author
Gal is an autistic artist, late-diagnosed at 49, and the creator of AuRTistic Expressions—a space where neurodivergent truth meets creative survival. Through blog posts, printables, courses, and the “This Might Get Messy” podcast, Gal explores what it means to unmask safely, communicate authentically, and make art that doesn’t ask for permission. Stick around—there’s plenty more where this came from.

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