Take a closer look at the image.

At first glance, it’s a smallish house with a surprisingly large basement. The house itself looks… nice. Cute, even. Fairly put together. The paint is fresh, the bushes are in bloom, someone clearly cared enough to tidy things up. The windows on the front and the side offer a sense of openness, perspective, a way of looking out at the world.

But it’s not perfect, is it?
Look at the roof.

Now let your eyes drift downward, into the basement.

What you don’t see is the invisible guard inside the house. Standing at a door that leads down there. Blocking the way.

You know the scene. The locked door in a movie. The one the main character is told not to open.
“You can go anywhere in the house, except that door. That door is off limits.”

And somehow, instantly, it becomes the most interesting place in the entire building.
You’re telling me I can’t go in? Really? :))

I’m obviously playing with an analogy here. But this image captures something very real about the human mind. A small, imperfect layer above the surface, doing its best to look composed. A guard we often dislike or resent for standing in our way. And beneath it all, an oversized, dark basement filled with… things. Most of which we barely recognize, if at all.

That guard didn’t appear by accident. And it’s not working for someone else. We created it. We shaped it. It exists to protect us from clutter, long-buried memories, old pain, and yes, our own so-called demons.

This is a foundational idea in my work.

Not storming the basement. Not ripping doors open. But carefully bringing to the surface what actually supports you, and taking a closer look at what needs attention or repair. So it no longer runs the house from below.

If you’re curious about what’s behind your door, you’re already closer than you think.