Niche? What niche?

They keep telling me to pick a niche, as though the fullness of a life can be reduced to a single hyphenated label. But how does a Renaissance woman choose one passion when her hands remember how to sew childhood dreams into dresses…when her heart knows the language of oil and cold wax…when her camera seeks the tender ache of abandoned places…when her pen insists on making meaning out of ordinary days?

Some of us were never meant to be distilled down. Some of us were born polymorphic, multi-passionate, gloriously unpigeonholed. We are the women who weave, making beauty from whatever thread is in reach.

They say “pick one thing” as though curiosity were a flaw. But I’ve learned that my wide range isn’t indecision: it’s inheritance. It’s how I was made.

Maybe my niche isn’t choosing. Maybe my niche is showing what a life looks like when you say yes to every form of creation that calls your name.