I stood in the doorway, sweating, clutching my wet heavy coat to my chest, staring with panicked eyes at the paint-splattered, spindly easels arranged around the nude model reclined on the platform at the center of the room. My breath in my mask was hot, my face damp; I scanned the room looking for a teacher, someone in charge, someone who’d tell me what the fuck I was supposed to do. Because I, with my bag full of shiny new art supplies and a burgeoning panic attack, had no idea.

This was part of my plan to try to reclaim my creativity, to kickstart my right brain: an abstract painting class at the Art Students League.

It was suspiciously easy to sign up for the class. Just a form, a registration fee and $130 and you, too, could spend your next four Thursday nights standing at an easel before a blank canvas wondering who the hell you think you are. Ant got me a set a pastels, an acrylic pad, some charcoal, and a beautiful beginners oil set in a handsome wooden box, complete with paints, brushes, palette, palette knife, pencil, eraser and sharpener, all arranged neatly in their inlaid compartments. I was nervous, but excited.

When the day arrived, though, the excitement vanished and the nervous anticipation ramped up to anxiety. I woke up already exhausted by the day that lay ahead of me—nine hours of workday followed by a three-hour art class and a 45-minute train ride both ways (or more, knowing the MTA). As the day wore on, dread set in. It was dripping miserable, cold rain. All I wanted to do was make some pasta for dinner and sit on the couch; go to bed at 9:30 and read my book until I fell asleep. I even scanned the documents of my admission to see about their refund policy. I’ll try again in the summer, I thought. The refund policy was straightforward. Easy enough to just not go.

But another aspect of my plan is to try new things, say yes to more stuff. And that meant not bailing on trying a new thing at the last minute. I knew the self-loathing, which would tip into depression, would come hot on the heels of the momentary euphoria of abandoning my mission to go to this fucking art class.

So, I gathered my pretty, unused art supplies, put on my coat and rain boots, pulled up my hood and entered the fray of the New York evening.

Immediately, it became clear I was going to be late, which added an unneeded dimension to my anxiety. The A train skulked between the stations as I closed my eyes and listened to the calming piano music I’d wisely chosen for the trip. By the time we rolled into the 59th Street station, I was already five minutes late. I speed-walked through the rain, dodging umbrellas and intrepid joggers sprinting into Central Park. The traffic oozed around Columbus Circle, headlights and rain like their own abstract painting through the steamed, wet lenses of my glasses. I desperately needed to pee.

I found the beautiful 130-year-old building on West 57th, walked in over its worn tile floors into the lobby hung with beautiful portraits painted, presumably, by students and faculty. A security guard at the desk asked me for my student ID and after a flash of panic (An ID? Did I miss something? Was I supposed to get an ID? When? How? Fuck!) I told him it was my first time there and I didn’t have an ID. He directed me to the office on the first floor. I was now at least ten minutes late. I was negotiating with my bladder, pleading for it to be stalwart.

After showing my proof of vaccination, my drivers license, and signing a form that promised not to come in if I was feeling sick, they gave me my student ID and told me to go to studio 12 on floor one. Assuming I was on floor one, I looked around for studio 12. Fifteen minutes late now. Sweating. I didn’t see any door labeled studio 12. Maybe I was on the ground floor instead of “floor one.” So I went to the elevator across the lobby.

The man who was in there with me asked, “Which floor?” his finger hovering in front of the buttons.

“Floor one,” I said, as if I knew exactly what the hell I was doing.

He glanced at me, his eyes confused over his blue surgical mask. “We’re on floor one,” he said as the doors closed and the elevator began to rise.

“Haha, oh, well,” I said, my face stinging red, as we rode the elevator up to the fourth floor.

Back down I went. Spotted the bathroom near the elevators and took the opportunity to gather myself, remove one point of urgency from my evening, as well as shed my coat, which had become a personal sauna in the old steam-heated building. Then I did what I should’ve done in the first place and asked the security guard at the desk where studio 12 was. He pointed me to a set of double doors at the other end of the lobby. I pushed through them into a wide hallway and there was studio 12, with a sign on the door directing me to studio 11 due to a leak. Which was where I stood sweating and panicked as I took in the wholly unfamiliar scene. I could feel tears starting to prick my eyes as I resisted the urge to flee.

After an eternity, a red-headed lady approaches me and says, “Are you here for the abstract painting class? Grab a space anywhere.”

I sidled by the artists working on pieces that were all beautiful, experienced paintings. These were people who had a firm grasp of artistic principles and techniques. That was when I realized this class would not be the sort of class where a teacher would stand up front and work through different lessons. This was an art studio where people came to work and get advice from a teacher as they progressed. And there I was with a pretender’s set of oils and no fucking clue.

There was still no sign of the teacher, an artist whom I looked up on the internet, whose pieces I didn’t love, but didn’t hate. I follow him on Instagram now. Not knowing what else to do, I sat down at a table and began unloading my bag of art supplies. I propped open my little set of oils and brushes and immediately felt conspicuous and self-conscious. They’d spot me as a faker immediately. I closed up the kit and hid it under the table. I felt tears spill over and start to soak my mask. I sent Ant a text: This is so awkward and fucking awful. I’m giving it one hour then I’m leaving. I started watching the clock.

Not wanting to simply sit there for an hour, I decided to attempt to sketch the model, a lithe young woman on her back, knees knocked together, feet splayed; one arm thrown across the platform, her other hand resting near her left hip. My view that first night was of the triangle of her legs, her feet and toes. After a few minutes of chaotic scribbling, I abandoned the pencil and its brutal insistence on precision and instead moved to fat, inexact pastels. I was well into making a mess of another piece of paper when the teacher, PB, finally came over and introduced himself.

“So, what are we doing here?” He asked, looking down at the haphazard image, rendered in bright green, on my page.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” I said, hoping he didn’t notice the tears on my cheeks.

“Okay, that’s great,” he said in his sunny Australian accent. “So, what you’re going to do is look for the shapes and the negative spaces…”

I grasped what he meant intellectually but in the practice of translating it to paper, I made a whole new muddle. I turned to a fresh page and tried again. Got a bit better. New page. Tried again. I kept doing this, trading out colors with each attempt to draw the model—or rather the shapes that comprised and surrounded her. Each attempt sucked slightly less than the one before.

My anxiety quelled, I felt my brain unclench a little. I looked at the clock; almost two hours had slipped by.

PB came back around every twenty minutes or so with more advice, more ways to add on, little tricks of color and perspective. He encouraged me not to look at my paper; look only for the shapes and draw them as the eye sees them. Do not look at the paper. As I did this, I began to giggle; I felt hilariously out of control. It was uncomfortable but also delightful. When I looked back at the page, I saw something that looked like an actual piece beginning to come through.

I ended that first class with a complete piece. It is ugly, muddy with color, disheveled with inexpert, unconfident lines, but the fact of making it was enough.

At 10 p.m., I gathered up all my things and stepped out onto the rain-shined sidewalk of 57th Street in a completely opposite state of mind than when I arrived. As I walked to the train stop, I shocked myself when I burst into a joyful sob. I did it. I did this new thing. And I made something.

It was a simple and singular feeling. I felt like I’d gotten a finger hold back onto something essential, something I’d been groping for in the dark. And with that small bit of purchase, I felt like I was about to start the long climb back to the light.

I showed up the next week with a new set of acrylic paints, brushes Ant helped me pick out, and a couple of mounted canvases. Like the week before, I rode out hairpin turns of frustration and delight as I tried to paint and apply the advice and techniques PB imparted. And again, like a revelation, a piece came into existence. Still chaotic and unconfident, mistakes abound, colors haphazard—but completed.

Again I left feeling that sense of joy and satisfaction that comes with creating something. I’ll keep going back as long as that lasts.