I’m stepping into 2026 with more clarity than I’ve had in a long time.

Not the loud, goal-board kind. The quieter kind that comes from staying with something long enough to know it’s real. From choosing intention over urgency. From letting curiosity lead, even when it complicates things.

Before I talk about what’s coming, I want to pause and acknowledge what 2025 gave me.

Looking Back at 2025

2025 wasn’t a year of rushing. It was a year of staying. Staying with questions. Staying with discomfort. Staying with the work even when it asked for patience instead of momentum.

I’m deeply grateful for what unfolded.

One of the moments I still feel tender about was being awarded second place in the 2025 AI Design Awards in the Sci-Fi & Fantasy category. Recognition like that lands slowly for me. It doesn’t feel like a finish line. It feels like a quiet confirmation that the strange, emotional worlds I keep returning to resonate beyond my own studio walls.

I also had the opportunity to participate in the 2025 British Art Fair as part of the second year of their Digitalism feature. It was my first time exhibiting with the fair, and I felt genuinely honored to be included. What made it especially meaningful was sharing space with digital artists I was already friends with in the community, alongside so many others I was introduced to through the show. Even though I didn’t attend in person, it felt connective rather than distant. A reminder that creative community doesn’t require proximity to be real.

And then there’s Softcore Anarchy.

Finishing that book mattered more to me than I can easily summarize. It holds years of thought, resistance, softness, anger, care, and healing. It’s not just a collection of images. It’s a record of how I see the world and how I choose to move through it. Completing it didn’t feel like crossing a finish line. It felt like setting something down gently and saying, “This exists now.”

How I Got Here

To understand why this year feels different, I need to rewind a bit.

When I first started experimenting with generative art tools, it was thrilling and overwhelming in equal measure. As a neuro-spicy lifelong creative, graphic designer, creative director, writer, and marketer, my brain locked in hard. Exploration turned into obsession almost immediately.

When I found Midjourney, that obsession became all-consuming. If I’m honest, it threw my balance way off. ADHD hyperfocus doesn’t negotiate. If I wasn’t doing very specific daily responsibilities, cooking, cleaning, parenting, I was creating. And when I wasn’t creating, I was thinking about it. Dreaming about it. Turning ideas over endlessly.

Nothing in my life had ever captured me like that.

At first, I refused to bring my traditional tools into the process. Photoshop, Illustrator, the software I’d used for decades felt numb to me after years of commercial work. They’d lost their magic. Eventually, I came back to them, and that’s when something shifted. Using everything together gave me balance again. It allowed me to truly claim the work as my own instead of disappearing into the machine.

When I began sharing my work publicly, it wasn’t about building an audience. It was about being a creative voice in support of the technology. I understood the anger surrounding generative AI art. I still do. Training data, environmental impact, lack of guardrails. These are real concerns. But I also understood, deeply, what this technology unlocked for certain kinds of brains. Not as a preference. As wiring.

I’ve seen this cycle before. When I entered the design world, digital tools were dismissed then too. Photoshop users weren’t “real” artists. That suspicion feels familiar now.

So I kept posting. Slowly, I found others who felt the same way. Over time, a supportive, thoughtful creative community formed, with smaller communities inside it. That has been one of the most meaningful outcomes of all.

There was also a small, personal moment that stayed with me. My favorite artist of all time, Mark Ryden, shared an experiment using AI video generation with his work. He wasn’t declaring anything. He was curious. I responded thoughtfully. He liked my response.

It was a tiny interaction, but it mattered. Not because I needed validation, but because seeing an artist of his caliber remain curious reminded me why I trust this path. Curiosity doesn’t undermine legitimacy. It deepens it.

This technology absolutely needs guardrails. It needs transparency. It needs humans involved at every step. Some of that is still missing. But it’s also an exciting frontier, especially for artists who think in systems, fragments, and emotional patterning. That’s the space I’m working in. Carefully. Human-first.

Looking Ahead to 2026

In April, I’ll be exhibiting at The Holy Art Fair in Tokyo. That alone feels surreal to write. Showing my work in Japan carries a lot of meaning for me, and I’m approaching it with both excitement and reverence.

Alongside exhibitions and publishing, I’m also continuing to build Softcore Anarchy as a living space, not just a book.

In 2026, that includes the ongoing growth of softcoreanarchy.com, a home for the work that goes beyond prints on a wall. It’s a place where limited edition pieces exist alongside more accessible offerings, and where community can form without pressure or performance. The site includes curated product drops, print editions, and a membership option designed for people who want to support the work in a more intentional, ongoing way. It’s still evolving, and I’m letting it grow at a pace that feels aligned rather than rushed.

I’ll be sharing more about this in a dedicated post soon.

This year, I’ll also be actively pursuing independent publishing and distribution opportunities for Softcore Anarchy. My hope is to place it with publishers who understand its emotional weight and ethical stance. I want it to live in spaces where it can be felt, not flattened. I’m also open to thoughtful licensing and collaboration opportunities that align with the spirit of the work. No forced scale. No extraction. Just intentional growth.

On Care, Community, and Sustainability

I want to say this clearly.

My work, my platforms, and my presence are intended to be a safe space. For queer folks. For people who feel othered. For anyone tired of having to armor themselves just to exist.

Supporting humanity is not separate from my art. It is the art.

In 2026, I’m continuing to build a creative life that sustains me, emotionally and financially. I want to make work that feeds my soul and supports my family. I want neither goal to come at the expense of the other.

That means slower growth.
Clear boundaries.
Intentional partnerships.

And trusting that the right opportunities don’t require self-abandonment.

I’m not interested in proving how productive I am anymore. I’m interested in being present.

Thank You

If you’ve supported my work, shared it, purchased it, sat with it quietly, or simply made space for it to exist, thank you. You’re part of this whether you realize it or not.

Here’s to a year of soft rebellion.
Of care as a creative force.
Of building something that lasts.

With gratitude and resolve,
Shannon