Creating Through Chronic Pain: Honoring the Body in the Studio

May 10, 2025

By Hansheng Lee – Lee Hansheng Studios | Art Collective International

Art has always been a part of me—threaded into the way I see the world, the way I breathe, process, and move through life. But for those of us living with chronic pain, creativity doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It exists through discomfort. Around limitations. Inside the spaces where our bodies feel heavy, inflamed, or unpredictable.

There’s no romanticizing this: creating while in pain is hard. Sometimes, it’s near impossible. But over the years, I’ve learned how to listen to my body more deeply and adapt my process—not by forcing myself to push through, but by honoring what’s possible that day.

This blog is not a how-to or a promise of quick fixes. It’s a reflection. A quiet space to share how I create through pain, what I’ve learned, and how I continue to show up for my art—and for myself.

I'm still in the long process of figuring out exactly what is causing my pain, between my shoulders, hip, and ankles... when the weather changes the pain follows if it's not already showing up.

🌱 Listening to the Body (Even When I’d Rather Not)

There are days I wake up and my body says: “Not today.” Not because I’m uninspired, but because the inflammation is flaring or my shoulder/hip is aching from an old injury that never fully healed. And some part of me wants to scream—because the ideas are there, but the vessel isn’t cooperating.

I used to fight it. I used to feel guilty, like I was lazy or falling behind. But pain is a teacher. And over time, I’ve learned that fighting my body only drains more energy from the things I love.

Now, I try to ask instead of demand.
What can I manage today?
What type of movement is kind to me right now?
Is this a day for fine detail—or loose, flowing marks?

Even 15 minutes of sketching or color swatching matters when done with awareness.

I've also stopped measuring how “good” my day is by how much I get done. One of the hardest things I’ve had to unlearn is comparing my current productivity to the version of me from ten years ago—before the chronic pain, before the limitations I now live with daily. That kind of thinking was exhausting and defeating, especially on high-pain days or weeks. Waking up and feeling pressure to get from A to Z, regardless of how my body felt, only led to frustration.

It’s not worth it.

We have to live in the present and honor where we are now—not who we were, or who we think we “should” be. Accepting that truth isn’t easy. Offering yourself grace takes practice, especially when you were raised to push past limits, often beyond what was healthy. But learning to meet yourself where you are? That’s where healing begins.

🖌️ Adapting My Practice

Art doesn't have to be done on the floor of a sun-drenched studio with perfect posture and nine hours of uninterrupted time. (Though that sounds lovely.) Creating through chronic pain means reframing the “ideal” studio into something that supports reality.

Some of the ways I adapt include:

Working in intervals – I use timers or intuitive breaks. 30 minutes painting, 10 minutes stretching or lying flat, this is works especially well with ink, acrylic, and watercolor drying time.
Using supportive seating – My chair is a wide base because I usually sit with my legs crossed, an additional cushion, lumbar support, and is NOT on wheels for better stability.
Switching mediums – On high-pain days, I’ll work digitally or sketch with pencil instead of painting large-scale or doing anything in the 3D studio. But learning to pivot is an important part of being an artist. Something my grandmother said to me when I was young, “You always have to be able to pivot at any point in time to survive” she was a farmer who took care of her family, made the tofu, sold it at the market, and grew all of the vegetables for our household until she was passed in 2012.
Adjusting lighting and airflow – Good light reduces strain, and temperature affects nerve pain and mobility. I keep my 2D studio and bedroom at 64ºF/ 12ºC which is chilly for some, but great for an inflamed body. My husband jokes that I am preserving him all the time, but he also enjoys it.
Sketching – If my hip or back is in extreme paint, I will shift over to sketching and idea, or work that I can do on a my phone or tablet to make life a little easier, be it in the hammock in the garden, in bed, or on the couch in the tea room.

I treat my body like a collaborator. One that sometimes shows up late, but still deserves care.

🧠 Dealing with the Mental Toll

Chronic pain doesn’t just live in the body—it echoes in the mind.

Fatigue, frustration, and grief are constant companions. There are days when I question if I’m still an “active” artist. Days when I mourn what I used to do with ease. Days where being in the garden is the most I can do. But to that there are days were I can take on more of the world too. It starts with giving yourself the permission to change, to adapt, and to accept.

I constantly remind myself on periods of high pain:
Slowness is not failure.
Adaptation is not defeat.
My art is still mine—even when it’s slower, softer, or more sporadic.

Resting is part of the process. So is saying no. So is pausing in the middle of something beautiful because my shoulder is trembling or my hip needs to not be in any position but flat.

Creating through pain has made me more intuitive, more gentle, and—honestly—more attuned to the emotional weight that each piece carries.

💬 What Helps Me Most

Batching work – On better days, I prep multiple canvases or paint multiple bookmarks. That way I have options during rough patches.
Gentle movement – Walks with Seiya, floor stretches and yoga, or short garden sessions help restore flow.
Ritual and environment – Tea, incense, soft background noise, and light help me enter the right mindset. I meditate daily, even if it's not at the same time every day, even if it's for 10-15 minutes.
Having multiple types of projects – Some require physical effort. Others are quiet admin tasks or digital work I can do while lying down.

And most importantly: community. Having friends and fellow artists who understand—not just in theory, but in lived experience—means everything. We don’t need to “fix” each other. Just hold space.

🎨 Final Thoughts: The Art Still Happens

Even in pain, the art still happens.
Sometimes it happens slowly. Sometimes it bursts through in unexpected ways.
Sometimes it’s in the lines I sketch on a high-pain day, trembling but determined.
Sometimes it’s in the pieces I return to again and again, working in layers—physically and emotionally.

Creating through chronic pain is not about proving anything. It’s about presence. It’s about trust in yourself, and showing up how you can.
It’s about letting art move through the cracks, the delays, the fatigue—and reminding yourself that you’re still an artist, exactly as you are.

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