We were lucky to catch up with Catiebelle Bulmer recently and have shared our conversation below.

Hi Catiebelle, thanks for joining us today. If you could go back in time do you wish you had started your creative career sooner or later?

Honestly, I couldn’t have started a moment sooner than I did.

Fresh out of university, my dream was to be a featured artist in magazines like Hi-Fructose and Juxtapoz. But looking back, I couldn’t have created anything of substance, because I had yet to form any of my own opinions. I had no idea what I wanted my work to say, because I didn’t know who I was and what I stood for. I needed to live a bit more—to learn about different cultures, to experience loss, to befriend that existential longing that only arrives at 2am in a city you just moved to and a studio apartment you can barely afford—to really find my voice.

My journey through advertising, yoga, and caregiving shaped me into the artist I am today. While I sometimes feel a little behind, “starting over” at 36, I also trust that my art is emerging at exactly the right time, not just for me but for the audience that needs it. It holds the weight of my experiences, the richness of my spirit, and the truth of my story. I wouldn’t change a thing.

Great, appreciate you sharing that with us. Before we ask you to share more of your insights, can you take a moment to introduce yourself and how you got to where you are today to our readers.

Hi new friends! I’m an ex art director, ex yogi, full time artist and illustrator, and my creative journey has been anything but linear.

After my BFA in graphic design, I interned at Crayola in Easton, PA, moved to San Francisco for grad school, and then landed the “dream job” as an art director at Leo Burnett in downtown Chicago, working on national brands such as Secret underarm deodorant and Kashi cereal. I quickly realized that selling people things they didn’t need wasn’t my calling, Uhauled my cat and obscenely large book collection to a studio in Portland, Oregon, freelanced at small shops, started teaching at the Art Institute of Portland, booked a gig as a creative director at a quirky digital startup, and then spontaneously attended a 10-day silent meditation retreat in Thailand that altered the entire course of my life.

During those excruciating 10 days (where they even took away my notebook and pen, a death sentence for a creative), for the first time in my life I witnessed my own thoughts. Witnessed, instead of drowned in. I saw how much of my life had been running on autopilot, how many decisions had come from sources outside of my own heart. That experience ultimately led me to step away from the creative industry entirely, get sober from alcohol (because I suddenly didn’t want to miss another second of my life), and dedicate nearly a decade to studying and teaching yoga, making pilgrimages to India, and building a community of practitioners online and in-person. I started my own business, which became a life raft for many during Covid lockdown, as I hosted online retreats and programs–sacred containers where women could be held in community while exploring the depths of themselves.

When my father’s Parkinson’s disease progressed to the point that he started falling on a regular basis, I donated most of my west-coast belongings and moved home to Pennsylvania to help care for him and my Mom. After his passing last summer, something unexpected happened—my love for art resurfaced in full force. Today, I am a full-time artist and illustrator, dedicated to creating safe spaces—both in my work and in the world.

Inspired by my personal journey, my art explores the relationship between joy/grief, and the meaning of home/belonging. I aim to create spaces that feel both nostalgically familiar and wondrously enchanted—places where viewers can escape to and, find themselves in. My latest series, Lo-Fi Studio Dreams, seeks to reignite the curiosity and childlike wonder often lost in adulthood. My artistic style is deeply influenced by my childhood growing up in the ’90s–infused with the bold colors, playful aesthetics, and sense of limitless imagination from that era. Using marker, pastel, colored pencil, and acrylic, I craft vibrantly colored, dreamlike environments—mini sanctuaries for rest and preservation in a turbulent world.

Beyond my creative work, I stand firmly for anti-capitalism self and community care, LGBTQ+ rights, and believe that art should challenge oppressive structures and advocate for a more just and inclusive world. At its core, my work is about belonging. The world can feel unkind and inhospitable, especially for those who don’t fit within the narrow structures society upholds. Through my art, I strive to create spaces where people feel safe, seen, and at home—both in their bodies and in their minds. My work is deeply personal yet universal; it speaks to anyone who has ever felt like an outsider, navigated grief, or longed for a place to belong.

We’d love to hear a story of resilience from your journey.

Six years ago I left behind a life I loved in Portland, OR, to move home and care for my father as his Parkinson’s disease progressed. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, and the years that followed were some of the most challenging of my life. My mother and I lived on a shoestring, balancing the overwhelming responsibilities of caregiving while trying to hold onto some sense of normalcy.

Two years ago, we faced the painful decision to move my father into a veteran’s care facility 1.5 hours away, as it was the only form of help we could afford. Overnight we began to make the long drive to visit multiple times a week, carrying the emotional weight of watching him decline in foreign surroundings, and fighting for his dignity in a system that too often fails the most vulnerable. Then, last summer, his health took a sudden turn. With the help of my amazing community, I was able to raise the funds to bring him home on hospice for his final days, and he passed in our living room, surrounded by familiar sights, sounds, and oodles of love.

My Dad was my first art inspiration. Growing up, every time Dad and I went out to eat at a restaurant or diner, the first thing he would do once we claimed our window booth, was flip over both of the paper table mats (you know, the ones that have all the local ads on them), pull out some pens or pencils (whatever he had in his front breast pocket or behind his ear that day), and have us draw. As a kid, I was in awe of his ability to draw anything we could imagine. I would take home his drawings and cut them out and stick them on to the cabinets above my desk (little cowboys wearing hats and riding horses next to cute coiled hissing snakes), and I’d hope that one day I’d be even half as good an artist as Dad.

After his passing, I took a month-long trip to the West Coast, to grieve and process. To my surprise, I didn’t do a moment of yoga. The thing that had buoyed my heart for 8 years felt empty to me. Instead, I woke up every morning aching to draw. For the first time in years art was pouring out of me. I rediscovered my love of line and color, of markers and colored pencils, of PAPER—the simple joy of making. It felt like coming home.

When I returned to Pennsylvania, I knew I had to make a shift. I transitioned out of teaching yoga, and fully committed to being an artist, knowing Dad would be there in spirit encouraging me every step of the way.

Up next? Who knows! I’m heading to the Bologna Book Fair in Italy this spring, and have a solo gallery show lined up for the summer–but really, the sky is blue and open and anything is possible.

The experience with my father forever deepened my understanding of resilience. The resilience to define your own path, and persevere. To allow yourself to change. It isn’t just about enduring hardship—it’s about allowing yourself to soften, to be present with challenging emotions, and to find the light in the darkest dark.

We often hear about learning lessons – but just as important is unlearning lessons. Have you ever had to unlearn a lesson?

I had to unlearn the idea that other people knew what was best for me. I had to learn how to have faith in myself, and leap.

When I was young, I absorbed the belief that art wasn’t a “real career,” that I needed to follow a safe, stable path. So I did. I pursued advertising, landed the dream job, and quickly realized it wasn’t MY dream at all. On paper, it made sense. In reality, it drained me—creatively, ethically, and emotionally.

But I had to take that job—and leave that job—to learn that lesson. It wasn’t until I started listening to myself—quitting, moving to Portland with no plan, diving into yoga, and eventually returning to art—that I understood no one else could chart my course for me. Leaving behind the security of a traditional career was terrifying, but it taught me something invaluable: success isn’t one-size-fits-all. I had to redefine it for myself.

My entire journey has been a series of pivots. Each transition was filled with uncertainty, but every single one brought me closer to where I’m meant to be. Taking a leap of faith is something I’ve had to do over and over again. Non-creatives often want certainty before they act, but being an artist means embracing the unknown and trusting that the net will appear. People ask me, “How did you know it would work out?” The truth is, I didn’t. I just knew I couldn’t stay where I was. Every major turning point in my life has come from leaping before I knew the landing was secure. That’s something I wish more people understood—you don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to listen to your gut and take the next step.

My art is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the courage to start over. I want my work to inspire others to trust their own paths, to take the leap even when they can’t see the net—because if my journey has taught me anything, it’s that the net always appears.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.catiebelle.com
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/catiebellebulmer/
• Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/catiebelle/