Becoming Frida: Colours, Pain, and the Artist in All of Us

It’s summer time, which means a yearly trip to Europe from Seoul. Long-haul flights and jet lag are challenging, but one thing I look forward to (apart from the free wine) is the in-flight entertainment—the anticipation of discovering new films. This time, one film stirred something deep in me: Becoming Frida Kahlo: A Star is Born.

When you think of Frida Kahlo, you probably picture the famous brows, the flowers in her hair, and the bold colours. But she was more than an image. Born in Mexico in 1907, she was one of the most iconic painters of the 20th century—known not just for her vivid self-portraits but for her courage to paint her pain, to make the world see what most of us try to hide. She turned a broken body and shattered dreams into colours that still burn on canvas today.

I remember walking the cobbled streets of Trogir, Croatia, one summer evening and stumbling upon an antique shop. In the window hung a portrait of Frida. I froze, drawn in like a magnet. Something about her gaze pulled me in and made me feel something raw and unsettled inside.

Was Frida too much? Too passionate, too loud, too real? Or was she exactly what the world needs—a reminder to be ourselves, to hold our colours even when life gets heavy? The real rebellion isn’t breaking the rules; it’s breaking the silence around what makes us who we are.

We are all artists in our own way. We notice, feel, and express—through music, writing, teaching, dancing, singing, painting. Creativity is how we heal, how we give something of ourselves to the world. Especially when our colours get dimmed, when old wounds scream louder than our confidence, when the world feels heavy and uneven.

Frida shows me that freedom doesn’t come from conforming but from expressing ourselves truthfully—blood, scars, tears. She shows me that pain and beauty can coexist, and that I don’t have to hide it. I can express it.

Her life wasn’t easy—childhood illness, a devastating bus accident at 18, lifelong chronic pain. She knew sorrow, betrayal, loneliness, and grief, yet she created from that space instead of hiding it. Despite her hardship, she followed her heart and her passion—and that reminds me to follow mine too, even when it feels scary or uncertain.

What does it take for us to finally do what we love? To peel back the layers and meet our authentic selves? Sometimes it’s heartbreak, illness, or loss. Sometimes it is simply courage. And perhaps acceptance—that our scars are part of our beauty.

She didn’t paint dreams or nightmares, but her own reality—a mosaic of pain, colour, rebellion, and love. And so we shall face our own reality too—with everything that comes with it. Whatever happened in the past is part of our story but it doesn’t have to stop us or define us. We can still create something beautiful.

Frida was often alone, and so she painted the subject she knew best: herself. If we could paint ourselves, what would the picture be like? Do we know ourselves well enough to make a full portrait? Would we paint all our parts—the bright, the dark, the cracked, and the whole? Perhaps self-knowledge isn’t about a flawless picture, but an honest one: seeing all the parts that shaped our story and, with compassion, accepting the cracks as well as the pain.

Frida reminds me that we are all creative in our own way. If we give a piece of ourselves to the world, in any form—we are expressing, we are creating, we are all colourful.

Some days, the cracks and scars feel unbearably heavy. On those days, it takes all the courage we have to remember our colours beneath the noise of life.

But even when our world turns black and white, the colours don’t disappear. They wait for us to feel safe enough to express again. Pain and beauty can be held at once, and both can be fierce, honest, and ours.

If rebellious means finally doing what we love, then let us all become rebels—bold, messy, alive, and full of colour. And maybe it’s time we let our own colours show too.