The Hero's Journey in Art ...and Life (Andrea Torrey Balsara)

Yesterday, author and illustrator Andrea Torrey Balsara sat down with us to talk about her latest YA release The Big and the Small. Today, she's kind enough to share her thoughts and art and she explores the hero's journey:

The Hero’s Journey in Art…and Life

By Andrea Torrey Balsara

 

I have been fascinated with the Hero’s Journey, that archetypal cycle of crisis and victory that pushes the protagonist’s journey forward. It’s the quest that we love to watch in movies and read about in books, but we dread it in our own lives. It’s hard to frame our own trials as anything remotely “heroic.” Even though our fictional heroes go through hell, when we’re going through it, we often feel like we’ve failed. We fail to see the full cycle of the journey, and we resist it. But the Hero’s Journey isn’t just a literary construct— it is a reality of the struggle we must all undergo to become our true selves. 

 

As someone who grew up with buried trauma, I was completely unaware of the deep trauma I had hidden deep inside of me. At five years old, I was molested by a trusted figure in my grandparents’ church and told I was to blame. I was so ashamed, so frightened that my family would discover “what I had done,” that I buried the memory. It showed up through violent nightmares, acting-out behaviours, and a constant draw towards suicide.

 

For me, the Hero’s Journey began when I was cut off from my true self, silenced by shame.

 

I had always loved drawing, and one of my earliest memories was of clutching a beautifully illustrated picture book to my chest and thinking, “OH! If I could only grow up and make such beautiful pictures!” It was my earliest inkling that I would become an illustrator, and drawing gave me an outlet for feelings I could not define and did not understand. 

 

Crayon on construction paper—My first “book cover.”

 

The road forward, of course, was fraught with perils. 

 

In my teens, I developed body dysmorphia and an eating disorder, and disassociated from my body. The art that I loved, that had flowed through me, slowed to a trickle. My arms seemed separate from me, like bags of concrete, and as I would paint, I felt as if I were hovering over them. Body dysmorphia translated into “art” dysmorphia—everything I painted or drew looked ridiculous to me. I threw out pieces, tore them up, marked over them, as if I could erase myself. Finally, I stopped drawing.

 

In the years that I was separate from my art, I felt adrift, no longer sure of who I was. Life felt joyless and bleak. Thoughts of suicide buzzed in the background like moths around a bug lamp. It felt like the dark night would never end.

 

Eventually, through a series of meandering paths that miraculously dovetailed, I slowly began drawing again. I started to write and tried to write stories that I could illustrate. But the drawings still felt stiff and forced. Writing came more easily. My inner critic, a sharpshooter trained to shoot down anything that felt too vulnerable, too ME, shot down my art like shooting fish in a barrel. Because I’d never identified myself as a “writer,” writing snuck in through the backdoor—and became a lifeline. I found I could write about things I wanted to understand, and eventually it became vital to me. It was healing, and also a joy. My childhood dreams of being an artist were set aside—it felt like I’d wanted too much. I was happy with “just” writing, until I had an opportunity to write and illustrate a picture book. The story was about a little guinea pig named Greenbeard, who dreamed of becoming a pirate. I loved (and still love!) that story, and so when the publisher gave me only five weeks to write and illustrate it, I dived in. I played “pirate” music on a loop and drew and drew and drew. And after five weeks, I had a picture book. 

 

Digital illustration from Greenbeard the Pirate Pig—“Dreaming of Pirates.”

 

I had found my voice again. I had reclaimed my art.

 

The cycles of crisis and victory never ceased, like waves that roll in and out. Sometimes it felt like I was in a hurricane. And other times, as I gained wisdom and healing, it felt like the waves carried me so high that I could see forever. I wanted to write a young adult novel that explored questions of good and evil. And I did. In 2017, the first edition of The Great & the Small was published. But the story didn’t feel finished. And in 2022, when I had the chance to revise it for a second edition, I knew it was time to explore my own journey with trauma. 

 

Digital illustration from The Great & the Small—Ananda protecting Fin at the market

 

Ananda, the teenaged protagonist, was given my backstory, but fictionalized to fit with the existing story. Watching her struggle to navigate life while completely unaware of the secret she had buried, helped me reconnect with myself. I could feel empathy for Ananda, and then realize I was feeling it for myself. As much as I was writing the book, the book was writing me. As parts of me that had lain dormant woke up, art began to flow.

 

Digital illustration from The Great & the Small—Ananda connecting with a squirrel.

Art became a meditation, a way to reconnect with my inner self. For the first time in years, I painted for joy—no agendas, no deadlines, just the simple pleasure of creating. It was like being a child again, letting something greater flow through me onto the canvas.

 

Acrylic on canvas. “The Fox”—a study in which I sought to paint the light within.

Acrylic on canvas board. “My girl, Maisie.”

Mixed media on watercolour paper. “The Golden Wood.”

 

Writing and art have become guiding lights, “keys” to illuminating my path through darkness. There are other keys, of course—faith, friendship, the kindness of others, to name a few. But as we each walk our own Hero’s Journey, part of the quest is to discover our own unique gifts, our own “keys” that are brought forth into the light as we journey through the dark, and that guide us back to our true selves. 

 

Oil on canvas. “Walking under the Starry Sky.”

~

Click for more on Andrea Torrey Balsara's writing and artwork.