I’ve been struggling. Struggling as the waves of the deep repetitively crashing down on me. With each pummel a deluge of emotions swells to the brim with barely a moment to catch my breath.

My cry met with silence and the search for a helping hand goes unnoticed in the dark. What seemed to be an immediate help was really just a faint ghost of the past, a mirage – unable to assist only able to sit idly by keeping me company amidst the onslaught of waves.

My only comfort is the rock, calm and unmoving. The sea continues to pull and push me against it. My grip slackens at times but holds on nonetheless. The alternative is much too frightening…

Truly my soul silently waits for God;
From Him comes my salvation.
He only is my rock and my salvation;
He is my defense;
I shall not be greatly moved.

Psalm 62:1-2

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A boy clings desperately to a solitary rock in the vast, churning ocean. Waves thrash and crash around him with relentless force, tossing his body and threatening to tear him away. His grip slips but never lets go. He is exhausted, submerged, gasping—yet anchored. Sitting atop the rock, with his back turned to the struggling figure, is another boy. Ethereal in presence, almost ghost-like, he offers no assistance. His back is adorned with the markings of Taiwanese Indigenous tattoos—symbols of a story that feels near, yet unreachable.

This painting is my outcry—born of personal struggle, emotional and spiritual. It came from that feeling of being overwhelmed, when the waves just keep coming and there’s no time to breathe. When you cry out for help and are met with silence. When you search for something, someone, to hold onto—and find only echoes.

The ghostly figure on the rock represents a distant ancestry—a cultural inheritance I’ve been chasing. As I searched for a connection to Taiwan’s Indigenous past, I found more questions than answers. Whispers stayed whispers. The boy’s back is turned because the connection remains elusive. He’s near, but passive. He keeps me company, but cannot rescue. He is the embodiment of memory, myth, bloodlines—uncertain, flickering between companion and mirage.

But the rock—that’s the true center of this piece. Steadfast. Unyielding. Unmoved by the storm. While the ghost may not save me, the rock does. It’s the only solid ground in a sea of uncertainty. For me, the rock is God—unchanging, quietly saving. Even as my strength fails, I echo the Psalm like a prayer in rhythm with the sea: “He only is my rock and my salvation; He is my defense; I shall not be greatly moved.”

This painting doesn’t show a rescue. It suspends the struggle. It gives space for the ache of disconnection, the longing for heritage, the weariness of holding on. It acknowledges that I don’t have all the answers, that faith is often silent, and that identity can be as cloudy as stormwater.

And yet, in the middle of all that, it’s also about endurance. About faith in the unseen. About how our stories—and salvations—are shaped in the storm.