What If You Didn’t Misread the Invitation?

msteele10
Mar 2
5 min read

Marlene Steele is standing in her art studio at Front Street in Dayton, Ohio, during open hours. — Marlene Steele standing in the doorway of her studio at Front Street

The first First Friday I stood in my studio at Front Street, I was certain I had made a mistake.

Have you ever stepped into something that looked right from the outside — only to feel completely unqualified once you were inside?

A new role. A new room. A new responsibility. A place where everyone else seems to know exactly what they’re doing.

And you’re standing there wondering if you misread the invitation.

That was me.

Two and a half years ago, I rented a studio at Front Street in Dayton, Ohio.

At the time, I told people I was “going to try.”

That’s exactly what I said. And if I’m honest, I didn’t even know what try meant.

I think I meant I was going to try to afford it. Try to justify it. Try to see if I could keep it.

I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have projections. I didn’t know what this would become, or if it would become anything at all.

What I did know was this:

I needed to be around other creative people.

I needed to be in a creative space where making things wasn’t unusual, it was normal.

Not just a place to paint.

A place to belong. A community.

When I first walked into the building, I instantly felt like I was supposed to find it. Like it hadn’t happened by accident, like something had gently nudged me in that direction.

I couldn’t explain that feeling logically. I still can’t.

But I listened to it.

The first First Friday I was ever there, I was terrified.

Not excited. Not “a little nervous.”

Terrified.

I walked through the building and saw the caliber of work around me, artists with signature styles, decades of dedication, confidence in their craft — and I shrank.

I didn’t know how to measure myself in that environment.

In most areas of my life, there had been a ladder. A place to start. A way to learn and earn my footing step by step.

This wasn’t that.

There was no training for how to “have a studio”. No roadmap for how to belong.

Inside building 100, BC door, showing scale. Only 1 of 3 floors and buildings. — 1 hallway in Front Street building 100

There was just me, and a building full of people who seemed completely at home.

The fear wasn’t about sales.

It was about belonging.

That night, someone said something I have never forgotten:

“Just remember, having a place here is success in itself. Nothing else matters.”

I wasn’t thinking about success at the time.

But those words steadied me.

They didn’t erase the fear.

They just made it possible to stay.

This Artist Journey Wasn’t Linear

It took me two years to begin understanding what that first night really meant. This artist journey didn’t unfold the way I expected it to.

Two years of showing up. Two years of conversations. Two years of friendships forming slowly. Two years of honest feedback, the kind that stretches you without breaking you.

I had always sensed I was being led here.

But sensing something and settling into it are two different things.

In the fall of 2025, while I was painting a piece that would later become The Places We Drift, something deepened.

As I painted, the words came with it. The poem formed while the brush was still in my hand.

It wasn’t something I sat down to analyze. It was something I recognized.

Here is what emerged:

The Places We Drift

There are seasons when the oars grow heavy and the compass feels unsure, when the horizon blurs into a wash of color and every direction looks the same.

And yet—the water moves beneath us with a wisdom we cannot name.

A gentle pull. A quiet nudge. A current that stirs even when we stand still.

We call it drifting, as if it were aimless. As if it were lost.

But sometimes the drift is the very path we were meant to take—the slow surrender that carries us to a place we never knew to look.

For in the drifting, new colors appear. New shorelines emerge. New light breaks open where the sky meets the water, and suddenly we see that stillness was never stagnation.

It was preparation.

And maybe—just maybe—we were being guided all along.

Carried by a hand that knows the ocean far better than we do. A hand that steadies the waves, whispers to the wind, and holds our little boat with tenderness.

So, we drift, not because we are lost, but because the One who guides us knows where the deeper tide is rising.

And when He is ready—He brings us to the place we were always meant to find.

A place full of wonder. A place full of beauty. A place full of Him.

These are the places we drift. And every one of them is holy.

— Marlene Steele

Close up of the painting, The Places We Drift, 3 sailboats, with sails down, simply being carried by the water. — The Places We Drift - close up of painting

When I stepped back and read those words, I realized something.

I hadn’t wandered into Front Street.

I had been carried here.

The fear. The uncertainty. The two years of settling.

None of it was accidental.

And if I’m honest, I’m still settling into that truth.

I used to think that if something was meant for me, I would feel confident stepping into it.

That hasn’t been my experience.

Sometimes the places you’re meant to be, feel uncomfortable at first. Sometimes they stretch you. Sometimes they expose the parts of you that still feel unsure.

That doesn’t mean you’re in the wrong place.

It might mean you’re growing into it.

If you’re in a season where you feel like you’re wandering, unsure if you belong, unsure if you’re qualified, unsure if you’re moving forward at all, I want you to consider something: