By Allison Chow

In March, I watched someone draw a mountain range of anxiety. Jagged peaks, rising high. At the base, a small path of “trust” winding toward a grove of “compassion.” There were no words exchanged at first—just ink, hands moving, breath slowing. Then the person looked up and said: “This is the shape it takes. I didn’t know until I drew it.”

That moment stayed with me. Because that’s what this project—Emotion Cartography—is about: making space for the truth beneath language. Over five weeks in Vancouver, 14 participants from all walks of life and I examined how emotions move through our bodies, through place, and through relationships. We didn’t come to fix or solve anything. We came with curiosity. And art gave us a way in.

Mapping the Inner Landscape

The question at the heart of this project was simple:
What if we could chart our emotional lives the same way we map physical geography?

What if anxiety had a texture, or joy had a sound? What if memory could be traced like a river, or grief shaded in quiet layers?

Each session began with a simple ritual—checking in, unpacking our weekly “data collectors” (filled with embodied prompts), and grounding ourselves with a guided body scan to “synthesize”. Then we entered a phase of creative exploration: tracing our bodies onto large sheets of paper, drawing and collaging the places we’d visited—both literally and emotionally. Our collective map started with black-and-white outlines showing the emotional states we’d like to move towards, and those that feel sticky or even dangerous to explore. Over time, it filled with color and complexity, layered with symbols, textures, and stories from the neighbourhood.

Each color connected back to a different data collector, designed to gently stretch people beyond their comfort zones and into reflection week-by-week. We explored our homes, nature, public space, memory, and the way we approach the unknown. No one was required to share—but slowly, people began to.

By week five, folks were tracing each other’s silhouettes, layering their emotional maps, and connecting threads between recurring themes—forming a literal web of feeling across the room.

Becoming Our Own Emotion Scientists

As the series unfolded, I began to see each person develop their own methodology. Some used texture rubbings, audio recordings, or concrete poetry. Others created visual journals beside leaves, shadows, or sidewalk cracks. One participant began carrying a sketchbook into public spaces to ease her anxiety. “It’s like I’m watching myself with more curiosity,” she said. “Not judgment—just… observation.”

Another participant created a vibrant patchwork heart to help process the trauma of a recent car accident. She brought it to her counselor as a visual bridge into conversation. “If I don’t want to talk,” she said, “I can draw.”

In these moments, the power of an art practice as a site for meaning making became clear. Each person stepped into the role of their own “emotion scientist”—noticing, documenting, and reflecting on their internal world. The term started out pretty tongue-in-cheek, but in the end it felt true. Each person in that room became a keeper of knowledge—not just their own, but a deeper, collective kind.

Knowledge That Lives in Community

And like any good science, the discoveries didn’t stay siloed.

By the final session, what started as personal exploration had blossomed into a communal field. People shared skills, offered resources, and opened up invitations—spontaneously, generously.

We closed with a circle and a ball of yarn. Each person passed the yarn to someone they felt connected to, naming why. The result was a web across the room—tactile and emotional.

One participant offered to share her talents in music therapy. Another offered comedic writing help. Carol opened her art studio to anyone feeling creatively stuck. Kim offered her space for messy making. When one person asked if anyone else ever felt too anxious to attend events alone, three people said: “Yes. Let’s go together.”

These aren’t just warm and fuzzy moments. They’re structural shifts. They’re reminders that emotional work doesn’t have to isolate us—it can ripple outward, building systems of support, shared creativity, and new kinds of knowledge.

Shared Themes, Shared Growth

Across the five weeks, some themes kept surfacing:
Rootedness. Expansion. Transformation. Containment. Tranquility.

People drew trees stretching toward the light. Butterflies cracking from their cocoons. Circles of community. Rivers winding into the unknown. “I thought this would be about the self,” one participant shared. “But it ended up being about community—how I relate to others, how I’m held.” Another reflected: “I started in black and white—trauma, isolation—but by the end, there were color waves coming out of my mouth. Movement. Voice. I don’t know where the sound waves are going, but the future is friendly.”

What struck me again and again is how making is metabolizing. Art doesn’t just express—it processes. It moves what’s stuck. It witnesses what we often hide. And when done in community, it makes that witnessing collective.

Making Space for the Unknown

What I’ll carry with me are the quiet moments. Someone described their spine as bamboo—strong, flexible, still growing. Another drawing joy as a “circle made of hands.” The person who drew a block and said: “I always thought I’d fall. But there’s structural integrity here. It’s holding me.”

These weren’t just metaphors. They were emotional blueprints—maps of resilience. When shared, they became part of something bigger than any of us. A field of lived knowledge rooted not in certainty, but in presence.

Lasting Impact

Saying goodbye was bittersweet. But the final session wasn’t really an ending—it was a turning point. Participants exchanged contact info, made plans, and shared the richest resources of all, themselves! Since then, I’ve heard about new journaling practices, meet-up ideas, and creative exchanges. It’s a reminder that the true impact of this work isn’t in a finished map. It’s in the shift in navigation—the way people now pause a bit more before reacting, or reach for a pen instead of withdrawing, or notice the quality of light in a hallway. It’s in the sketchbook carried to steady the nervous system. The conversation started by noticing the sound of water.

It’s in the return to our emotional maps—and to the people who helped us draw them.

Final Thoughts

Art, in this way, is both microscope and compass. It helps us look closer. It helps us orient. It reminds us that even when the terrain feels unfamiliar, we’re not navigating alone. To anyone wondering if this kind of work is too soft, too slow, too strange—I’d say: try becoming your own emotion scientist. See what you discover.

And if you’re curious about bringing Emotion Cartography to your school, workplace, or community, I’d be happy to share open-source tools and ideas to get you started.

Let’s keep mapping.

Becoming Our Own Emotion Scientist