Earlier today, my daughter and I found ourselves in a deep conversation about a heavy, exhausting burden: the desire to be universally liked. She was opening up to me about her fear of expressing her Christian views, anxious that her theological ideologies would alienate people or provoke anger.

I looked at her, and I told her the absolute truth: "No one who has ever been born on this earth has lived a life where everyone liked them. And honestly, if everyone likes you, you probably have a problem."

If you navigate this life and manage to never upset a single soul, it means you’re living a life of total compromise. If you set up a system where you say something that one group of people thinks is great, another group right behind them is going to hate you for that exact same statement. You cannot win that game, so you have to stop playing it. You don't have time to waste worrying about who likes you and who doesn’t. Your only concern is honest expression, stating the truth, and moving on.

As an artist, this isn't just advice I give my child—it is the exact foundation of my entire creative life.

When I am standing in front of a painting, I don’t care who will like it or who will be offended by it. The public's reaction is entirely irrelevant to the work happening in my studio. The only person I am trying to please when I am painting is myself. And, in an abstract way, the painting itself.

When I work, I am in a literal conversation with the artwork. As the brush moves, the piece begins to talk back to me. It tells me what it needs to convey an idea. It demands certain things, and my only job—my sole responsibility—is to be completely true to what that specific piece is telling me it needs to exist. I cannot listen to the potential noise of an audience while trying to hear the voice of the canvas.

I told my daughter that she needs to approach her faith with that exact same singular focus. In her situation, she shouldn't be looking at the crowd to see if they're smiling. Her only concern should be whether or not what she is saying is scripturally sound and theologically intact.

But standing firm in your truth doesn't mean being reckless with it. I told her that she has to exercise wisdom in what she’s saying. When you are preaching, teaching, or sharing your theological views, you have to realize where you are, who you are talking to, and the context of the room you are standing in.

Everyone walks through this world carrying their own heavy sack of personal experiences. When people listen to you speak about faith, they are filtering your words through the lens of their own lives—and for many people, their experiences with religious ideology have not been positive. They might carry wounds, skepticism, or trauma.

You have to be sensitive to that reality. It isn't about altering the message to make it comfortable; it’s about having the empathy to understand how it lands. As the scripture says, if you want to win a soul, you must be wise.

Whether you are pushing a paintbrush to confront America's darkest, most uncomfortable histories or speaking from a place of deep spiritual conviction, the rule remains the same: authenticity will cost you the crowd's approval.

I want my daughter to live a life of integrity, not polite compliance. I want her to know that her voice has weight, and that weight will naturally cause friction. But if she anchors herself in what is theologically sound, just as I anchor myself in what the artwork demands, the noise of the world fades away.

Speak your truth with wisdom, respect the experiences of those listening, and then move on. The right people will hear you, and the rest isn't your business.