In Anesthesia, a suspended hand emerges through murky textures, caught in a moment where protection and paralysis blur. The greenish hues suggest healing, yet the somber backdrop speaks to distance, the kind forged when pain becomes too constant to process.

This work reflects the body’s instinct to shield itself, not just from physical injury but from the weight of emotional exposure. The hand, subdued, unreactive, evokes the lingering aftereffect of suffering: not screaming, but silence. It’s a gesture suspended between fracture and pause.

Anesthesia is rooted in moments of emotional disconnect, waking mid-surgery, when awareness returned before the feeling. Anesthesia becomes a metaphor for the tension between shutting down to survive and yearning to reawaken. It invites viewers to consider what it costs to go numb, and what it takes to come back.

Some wounds don’t cry out, they go quiet. Anesthesia speaks to that quiet: the long, slow drift into emotional stillness. We don’t always choose numbness; sometimes it’s the only way the heart knows how to keep going. But God is not afraid of our silence. He doesn’t rush us out of it. Instead, He waits with us, until we’re ready to feel again, to hope again, to live again.

“A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out. In faithfulness he will bring forth justice.” Isaiah 42:3 

Reflection Question

Where have you stopped feeling just to get by, and could that be the very place God is trying to revive in you?