I was born in Şanlıurfa, the city of prophets, a place shaped by history, faith, tradition, and communal life. I grew up in a large family in a culture where life was deeply shared, but where girls were not always encouraged to become individuals. Many girls did not continue their education. They married within the extended family and remained in the same city all their lives. My mother, who was never allowed to be educated herself, became the person who changed that story for me. She believed education was freedom. She used to say, They can take everything from you, but they cannot take your knowledge or your profession.

Because of her, I went to college and became an English teacher. I later moved to Istanbul, where I began my master’s degree. It was there that I first encountered Ebru, the ancient art of marbling on water. At first, I learned it simply as a hobby, but even then, something in it spoke to me very deeply.

What drew me in was not only the beauty of the colors floating on water, but the mystery of the process. In Ebru, you prepare carefully, you bring your intention, you touch the surface gently — but in the end, you cannot control everything. The water responds in its own way. The colors open, drift, separate, meet, and transform. You must work with what appears, not force what you imagined. Over time, I began to feel that Ebru was teaching me something spiritual.

This became even more meaningful as my life kept changing. I was far from home, far from family, first in Istanbul and later in Australia and the United States. Each move asked something of me. Each new place required me to begin again. In Australia, I could not find work as an English teacher. My husband drove taxis. I went back to school and tried to rebuild my life from the beginning. There was uncertainty, disappointment, homesickness, and the quiet pain of not knowing where exactly I belonged.

That is when Ebru stopped being just an art form for me.

In the Sufi tradition, there is an understanding that we are not fully in control, and that there is wisdom in surrender. Not passive surrender, but a trusting surrender — a willingness to move with what is given, to listen, to soften, to let transformation happen. Ebru carries that feeling for me. The tray teaches patience. The water teaches humility. The floating colors teach trust. Each piece reminds me that beauty is not always created by force; sometimes it appears when we stop trying to dominate and learn how to be in relationship with the unknown.

I realized that my life had been like that water. I had made plans, crossed countries, studied, worked, mothered, struggled, and hoped. But again and again, life unfolded in ways I could not fully predict. Ebru became the place where I learned not only to accept that truth, but to create through it.

That was the turning point in my life as an artist. I understood that Ebru was not simply something I practiced; it was something that reflected my inner life. It gave form to emotions I could not always express in words. It connected me to my Turkish heritage, but it also gave me a way to carry that heritage across borders and into new communities. Through it, I found not only an art practice, but a philosophy: to meet uncertainty with presence, to meet change with trust, and to keep making beauty anyway.

Today, I live in the United States, where I work as a 4K teacher and also teach Ebru. Teaching children and teaching marbling are connected for me. Both require presence, patience, and faith in what is unfolding. As an artist, I feel that I am not only preserving a traditional art form, but sharing a way of seeing the world — one rooted in wonder, surrender, and connection.

My journey began in a place where girls were expected to follow a narrow path. Through education I stepped beyond that path. Through art, I found my voice. And through Ebru, I found something even deeper: a way to live with mystery, to trust transformation, and to understand that what looks uncontrollable can still become beautiful.