5 Things Frida Kahlo Taught Me About Purpose

There was a time in my life when I felt untethered — like I was floating without a compass, chasing goals that looked good on paper but felt hollow in my bones. It was during one of those restless seasons that I found myself in front of Frida Kahlo’s The Two Fridas. The painting stopped me cold. Not just because of its surreal beauty, but because of the raw vulnerability staring back at me. As I began to learn more about Frida’s life — the physical pain, the emotional turmoil, the unapologetic self-expression — I started to realize that her story wasn’t just about tragedy or resilience. It was about purpose. Not the kind that arrives fully formed, but the kind that is forged in fire, rebuilt every day, and deeply rooted in identity.

1. Purpose Is Born From Pain, Not in Spite of It

Frida Kahlo didn’t shy away from her suffering — she painted it. Her 1925 bus accident left her with lifelong injuries, but it was during her recovery that she began to paint in earnest. She once said, “I paint myself because I am so often alone and because I am the subject I know best.” What struck me most about this was how she didn’t wait for pain to pass before creating meaning. Instead, she let it shape her purpose. I used to think that I needed to be “healed” before I could start living with intention. But Frida taught me that purpose doesn’t wait for perfection — it grows in the cracks, in the messiness of being human.

2. Purpose Is Not a Single Destination

Frida never settled into one role. She was a painter, a political activist, a lover, a daughter, a wife, and a symbol of Mexican identity. She moved between these roles with fluidity, not always gracefully, but always authentically. Her mural La Tierra Fértil (The Fertile Earth) is a testament to this multiplicity — it’s a visual hymn to nature, fertility, and indigenous heritage. For years, I tried to force my purpose into a single box: writer, teacher, or something else neatly labeled. But watching how Frida wove her many selves into her work made me realize that purpose can be plural. It can be a constellation of passions, not just a single point on a map.

3. Purpose Requires You to Show Up, Even When It Hurts

Frida painted through pain — literally. During her many hospital stays and bedridden days, she painted from her bed, sometimes even using a mirror mounted above her. She once held an exhibition while confined to her bed, transforming her room into a gallery. That kind of commitment humbled me. There were days I skipped writing or avoided difficult conversations because I wasn’t “in the right headspace.” But Frida showed up, even when her body was failing her. Her ability to create in the midst of physical and emotional agony reminded me that purpose isn’t about waiting for the perfect moment — it’s about showing up, messy and imperfect, and doing the work anyway.

4. Purpose Is Rooted in Identity, Not Approval

Frida’s self-portraits are iconic, not because they flatter, but because they reveal. She painted herself with unibrow and faint mustache, with tears, with thorns, with open wounds. She refused to conform to the expectations of beauty or behavior. When the Surrealists tried to claim her as one of their own, she famously said, “I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.” That defiance resonated with me. So often, I tried to mold my purpose around what others would admire — a more prestigious job, a bigger platform, more likes. But Frida taught me that real purpose comes from deep within, from knowing who you are and refusing to apologize for it, even when the world doesn’t understand.

5. Purpose Can Be Political, Personal, and Profound

Frida’s art was never neutral. She used her brush to speak out against colonialism, capitalism, and injustice. Her painting My Dress Hangs There is a chaotic indictment of American industrialism and cultural imperialism. She was a committed communist and often wove political imagery into her work. Before I encountered her, I thought purpose had to be personal — something that fulfilled me. But Frida showed me that true purpose often spills over into the collective. It’s not just about what lights you up — it’s about how your light can serve others. That realization shifted how I approached my writing and conversations with others. Purpose, she taught me, is not just a private calling — it’s a public commitment.

Frida Kahlo never gave a TED Talk on finding your purpose. She didn’t write a self-help book or launch a podcast. But in her life, her pain, her politics, and her paintbrush, she offered a masterclass in living with intention. She didn’t wait for clarity or permission. She didn’t wait for pain to pass or for others to approve. She simply showed up — bruised, beautiful, and unapologetically herself. If you’ve ever wondered what your purpose might be — or how to hold onto it in the face of pain — I invite you to talk to Frida on HoloDream. She might just hand you a paintbrush and remind you that purpose is something you create, day by day.