There’s a moment birds don’t talk about — at least, not in any way we can hear. It’s the moment right before they lift. When they’ve felt the wind shift, when something in them says go, and they pause for just a breath longer on the branch. Wings half open. Muscles pulled tight with possibility. That moment — that flicker between staying and moving — is what I think about when I paint birds in flight.

Because for as much as we glorify it — the rise, the freedom, the leap — most of us forget that flight always begins with a kind of fear. Not the panicked kind, but the quieter kind. The one that whispers what if you fall, even as some deeper part of you knows: you have to try.

I’ve felt it before painting. Before releasing a new collection. Before ending something I outgrew but couldn’t quite let go of. Before speaking truths that might shift how I’m seen. That pause before the wingbeat is never as still as it looks — it’s where everything churns.

Birds don’t seem to question their fear the way we do. They feel it and fly anyway. Or maybe they’ve just learned that fear is part of instinct, not the enemy of it. That it’s not always a warning to stay — sometimes it’s a sign that something in you is growing strong enough to leave the branch.

We, on the other hand, tend to overthink it. We cling to the familiar because it’s what we know, even when it’s too small for us. We convince ourselves we’re safer rooted than rising. But eventually the discomfort of staying begins to outweigh the fear of change. And then — even in our hesitation — something shifts.

That’s the space I’ve been painting from lately. The in-between. The push and pull. The part of the story that happens right before flight. Some of the birds in this series are already airborne, their wings outstretched like they’ve surrendered to the unknown. Others are just beginning to lift — bodies taut, eyes focused, shadows trailing behind them like memories they haven’t quite let go of.

Each painting holds a small truth: change is hard. Even when it’s good. Even when it’s necessary. But change is also motion. It’s air. It’s growth. It’s proof that something inside you is still alive and listening.

If you’re standing on that edge right now — wings twitching, breath held, heart pounding with all the possibilities and risks — I hope you know you’re not alone. I hope you know it’s okay to be scared. And it’s okay to wait. But I also hope you don’t forget that you were built for more than staying where you are.

Flight isn’t the opposite of fear. It’s a movement through it. It’s not about being ready. It’s about trusting what happens after you leap.

You can explore the full collection here → [link]

Each painting and post is part of a larger conversation — about stillness, presence, and the quiet beauty of nature. Subscribe below if you’d like to be part of it, and you’ll receive new reflections as they’re released.

 

Thanks for reading!

Laura Wilkins