My first art competition

how watercolor helped me find my voice in the midst of war

When I think back to 2023, I remember not just the bombs and the blackouts, but something much more fragile – the quiet resilience that watercolor painting brought into my life. At the time, I was still living in Ukraine. The war had already become an overwhelming part of our daily reality. There were days when the sounds of sirens and the cold darkness of yet another blackout felt like too much to bear. But in those moments of uncertainty, I found something unexpectedly grounding – the soft whisper of watercolor, the movement of pigment in water, and the small but persistent act of painting.

Watercolor as a lifeline

At first, watercolor was not a career or even an ambition. It was a way to breathe. A way to reclaim moments of calm in a world that had turned unpredictable. During the darkest days of the war, my husband – seeing how much painting meant to me – would take the battery out of our car just to power a small lamp. I’d sit at the kitchen table, surrounded by silence and shadows, painting under that flickering light. It became my ritual, my therapy, and my resistance.

I wasn’t yet calling myself a watercolor artist. Like many people who begin creating later in life, I didn’t dare to use that word. But I was already walking the path.

The first steps toward belief

By 2023, I had started developing my own style and creating paintings from my own references and photographs. I no longer needed to follow someone else’s tutorial; I was beginning to trust my own eye. Around the same time, I decided to start a YouTube channel – not because I expected an audience, but because I needed a structure, a discipline. I promised myself to post one new watercolor painting every week. That quiet commitment was the beginning of something bigger.

In parallel, I continued attending online masterclasses. Each session brought me new techniques, new thoughts, and a growing sense that maybe, just maybe, I had something to say through my art.

A chance encounter with a contest

One evening, as I scrolled through Instagram, an ad for an international art competition appeared. At first, I almost swiped past it. After all, I wasn’t “really” an artist, right? That’s what I kept telling myself. I had no formal art education. No exhibitions. No collectors.

Golden Time Talent International Online Contest

But something in the contest’s name struck me. There was a mix of seriousness and imagination in it, something that resonated deeply with my inner world. It felt like the invitation I didn’t know I was waiting for. Still, it was hard to believe I belonged there.I hesitated for days. And then – I said yes. From that moment, everything changed. I selected a few of my recent works and began preparing them with more care than ever before. My son helped me shoot short presentation videos for each piece. We laughed so hard over my struggle to pronounce the word “participant” – a word that, to this day, makes our entire family chuckle.

I paid the application fee, recorded my videos, filled out the submission forms, and – with shaking hands – pressed “send.”
And then I waited.

Golden Time Talent International Online Contest – 49th Season

During the 49th season of the Golden Time Talent International Online Contest, I had the honour of representing Ukraine. It was my very first art competition – and it took place while I was still living in Ukraine, during a time of immense emotional and national hardship.

At that time, I had a small desk tucked in the corner of our bedroom — my only creative refuge during frequent blackouts caused by the war. My husband even rigged up a table lamp from our car battery so I could paint by candlelight or dim electric light, just to keep going. Watercolour was more than a medium for me then — it was therapy, discipline, and escape.

I submitted three original artworks, all deeply rooted in the atmosphere of Chernivtsi, my hometown. They were:

“Morning on O. Kobylianska Street”

“Blackberry Berries in the Garden by the Dniester”

“Morning near the Armenian Church”

To my surprise and joy, all three received recognition from the jury.
🏅Two of them earned second place, and
🥇“Morning on O. Kobylianska Street” won first prize in its category.

That moment – receiving the results – was unforgettable. I remember the word participant (“participant”) making me laugh awkwardly when I recorded my promo video – it was the first time I’d heard myself say it aloud as an artist. Now, that very word has become a joyful inside joke in our family. What began as a quiet attempt to test myself turned into a moment of artistic affirmation. More than the prize itself, the contest gifted me something I had never allowed myself before – the right to be seen as a creator. For that, I’m sincerely grateful.

The response that changed everything

When the acceptance email finally arrived, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I must have read it ten times before it sank in. I was in. I was a participant. And for the first time in a long time, I cried not out of fear or exhaustion, but out of joy.

The emotion was overwhelming. It wasn’t just about the competition. It was the first time someone outside of my close circle acknowledged me as an artist. That simple word – “accepted” – did more than any certificate or course could. It gave me the permission I hadn’t known I needed to believe in myself.

The real prize: confidence

In many ways, I received something more lasting. The experience taught me that art isn’t about accolades. It’s about voice. It’s about daring to share a piece of your world, even when that world feels broken. Especially when it feels broken. Participating in that contest was like standing in a quiet room and whispering, “I am here.” And hearing someone whisper back, “Yes, we see you.”

From that moment on, I stopped hiding behind excuses. I stopped calling my work a hobby. I began introducing myself as an artist.

Gratitude for the unexpected

Looking back, I am deeply grateful for that competition. Not because it made me famous or rich – it didn’t. But because it helped me cross an invisible threshold. It validated something I had been afraid to name: that my creativity mattered. It also taught me the power of showing up. That sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is hit “submit” – not knowing what will come next.

A message to fellow creators

If you are reading this and you’re still not sure whether your work is “good enough” to share – let me say this clearly: it is.

You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need a degree. You don’t need to wait for the “right moment.” The act of creating something, especially in times of chaos, is already a form of bravery.

Competitions are not just about recognition. They’re milestones in our personal journeys. They help us measure growth, set intentions, and – most importantly – build the courage to say, “This is me.”

Today, I live in the UK. I’ve continued painting, growing, and building my professional artistic path. But I still carry with me those early lessons – and the warmth of that first step.

The war changed everything in my life. It uprooted my home and disrupted everything familiar. But it also revealed to me a deeper part of myself – someone who could create even in darkness.

And for that, I’ll always be grateful. I hope this story brings you inspiration – whether you’re a fellow artist, an art lover, or someone who’s simply trying to find beauty in difficult times. We all start somewhere. My journey began with a brush, a blackout, and a little faith. And yours can too.