I can’t even remember the first time my mom mentioned Frida Kahlo to me. It was probably somewhere around middle school age, when I was wildly unsure about myself, my likes, and where I was going to go with my life. Being a chronically ill, anxious young girl who felt she had to grow up too fast in order to take care of her health, I was often labeled ‘mature’ for my age. When, in reality, I was cracking even more under the pressure of identity and purpose. I imagine most middle schoolers don’t even begin to contemplate the meaning of their lives, but for me, it was one of the few things I could focus on questioning. And once, offhandedly I’m sure, my mom mentioned Frida Kahlo to me, and I decided to begin exploring her work. I was both frightened and thoroughly enthralled. Her work showed sides to woman and girlhood that I never dared to mention, and reading her story made me suddenly feel… seen. While my illness was not nearly as debilitating and complicated as hers (she contracted polio at a young age, giving her a limp, and was then struck in a bus accident as a teenager, where her pelvic bone had been fractured and a metal rail punctured her abdomen and uterus, as well as broken her spine, among various other injuries), she gave me hope as to what artists could still do in light of medical hardships. I didn’t realize it at the time, but Kahlo had led me along the way to showing my true self and passions to the world.

As my passion for her continued to grow throughout high school, discussing her work and identity became a pastime between mom and I. We had always been very close (she’s still my best friend), but I felt that this common thread brought us even closer. I have one specific core memory with her that I don’t think I’ll ever forget: it was the finals week of my junior year, an extremely stressful time, as those were the grades colleges were going to be seeing. I had been working as hard as I could all year in taking AP courses and overloading my schedule for the sake of applications. The last week, filled with finals right before the summer, was one of intense cramming. But one night my mom came up to me and said that there was a Frida Kahlo exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts, only a quick half hour from our house, and we both knew we had to go. So, one random midweek afternoon the minute I got home we were off. As a pretty uptight and cautious person, especially in regards to academics, I felt so rebellious spending my time doing anything but studying. In the car, I braided my hair in a crown to embody Frida. I brought a little bag with her on it (that I had also brought to my prom), and when we got there, I felt giddier than I had in a long time. I made my mom take pictures of me with almost every painting I could manage to get in front of, and spent so much time just looking up close at the brush strokes on every painting. I felt like I could almost see the searing pain and emotion each one brought.

I left the museum that day with my heart feeling a little fuller. I had forgotten about all my worries about the world, and felt the way I did when I first saw her paintings— if she had used her pain to push forward and pursue art, then maybe I could too. Maybe I could learn to be vocal in the way she had. At that point in my life my passion for poetry was really starting to kick in, and I was set on applying to colleges for writing in hopes that my poetry could prosper and be published. I knew I wasn’t there yet, still with the training wheels on, but that someday something was going to create an even bigger connection between Frida and I.

And that day presented itself when I entered college for the first time. In the midst of an ever-roaring pandemic, the fall of 2020 was one of the hardest times I had experienced thus far. I was living in fear, day to day, subject to in person classes as a chronically ill person that wanted to stay as far away from everyone as I could. I had done a poetry workshop over the summer with my favorite high school teacher and close friend, and with a fully written chapbook under my belt, was feeling more confident in my writing than ever. I thought about how often I talked to the two of them in workshops about Frida Kahlo and her art, and they recommended I write about her. I was in awe that I hadn’t thought of the idea myself, and immediately began a new collection after her. I thought about how she pursued pain as if it was her own breath and hoped that I would be able to do the same. I began researching and writing ekphrastic poetry, honing in on each of Kahlo’s paintings, and felt my words, and her paintings, come alive in front of me. As the spring of my sophomore year at Emerson College is upon us, I’ve faced more health challenges than I hoped I would at this point. But I continue to use Kahlo as an inspiration in persevering through my pain. I’ve continued writing about her, and have made a goal to finish the collection by the end of this year. When I think about my future, I think about having this be my first official publication and I can’t help but be proud of that girl who, so many years ago, began to embark on this journey of art and self exploration.

Lydia Prendergast is currently a creative writing student at Emerson College in Boston, MA. Recently published in WACK Mag for her poem ‘knitting’ and by Press Pause Press under the category Midnight Snack for her poem ‘nourish’, Lydia often writes about her experience growing up with anxiety and chronic illness. She expands on how this has translated into her daily life as she comes of age in such a tumultuous world. Alongside writing, Lydia has a love for reading, hand-knitting, baking dairy and gluten free goods, and hanging out with her 10 year old golden retriever, Riley and 2 year old cat, Frida. She hopes to publish a poetry book within the next few years.