LESSONS FROM VAN GOGH

I recently visited a Van Gogh exhibition at a gallery in London, and I wasn’t prepared for how deeply it would move me.

I’ve seen prints of his work countless times—framed neatly on walls, printed in books, shared in Instagram squares—but nothing compares to standing in front of the real thing.

The size. The texture. The swirling, deliberate brushstrokes that seem to rise and breathe from the canvas. There’s a depth and energy that no print can capture. It’s not just art—it’s soul laid bare in colour and movement.

And I found myself in awe.

Not just of his talent, but of the man behind it. Vincent van Gogh—who battled deep mental torment, who was misunderstood, often alone, and plagued by hardship. And yet, in that brokenness, he created such staggering beauty.

It made me wonder: would the art have been the same without the suffering?

Would Starry Night still pulse with such aching glory if he hadn’t known darkness so intimately?

I don’t romanticise mental illness, but I do sit with these tensions: how suffering shapes us, how beauty can emerge from the hardest soil, and how often the most brilliant light comes from fractured places. These are the thoughts I wrestle with.

Because I’ve known darkness too.

In my twenties, I struggled with anxiety and depression. It coloured everything—I couldn’t see forward, couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t see myself as whole. Then, more recently, I faced a cancer diagnosis that shook me to my core. Once again, I found myself in the valley—uncertain, afraid, and overwhelmed.

But this time, I knew where to turn.

Through prayer, counselling, and being intentional with my thoughts, my focus, and my faith, I found a different kind of strength. Not the kind that comes from pretending everything is fine—but the kind that grows quietly when you show up every day, broken and hopeful all at once. I learned how to sit with hard emotions without letting them rule me. How to choose what I would focus on. How to reframe the story.

And that's what struck me again as I stood in front of Van Gogh’s paintings: we each have the power to frame our lives.

To literally frame the picture we want to paint with our experiences. Not by ignoring the pain, but by changing how we see it. By allowing God to use even the shattered pieces as part of a greater masterpiece.

Romans 12:2 reminds us, “Be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” This isn’t just poetic—it’s deeply practical, even neurological. Positive psychology now echoes what Scripture has long taught: we can rewire thought patterns, grow gratitude, and shift our emotional landscape over time.

We get to choose our focus. We get to decide what story we tell ourselves. And with God’s help, we can paint something meaningful—even from the mess.

As I walked slowly through the gallery, I thought about Van Gogh’s perseverance. His legacy. The pain that never fully lifted. And yet—he kept painting. Kept creating. Kept expressing what words never could.

That challenges me. And it comforts me.

We don’t have to wait for perfect circumstances to begin. We don’t need to be whole to create something holy. We just need to be willing.

If these ideas stir something in you, I highly recommend Rembrandt Is in the Wind by Russ Ramsey and The Beauty Chasers by Timothy Willard. They speak to the sacredness of beauty, suffering, creativity, and hope.

And maybe that’s where the real masterpiece is found—not in what we make, but in who we become when we choose to reframe.

What picture are you painting today? What frame will you choose?