A Big, Bold, Beautiful Journey: Fear, Love, and the Courage to Be Seen
A reflection through an art therapy lens
In A Big, Bold, Beautiful Journey, two people meet carrying very different histories, yet both shaped profoundly by fear.
She learned early that love can disappear. Her mother dies of cancer when she is nineteen, and her father is emotionally absent. To survive, she learns to stay in control — leaving before she can be left, cheating or disappearing without explanation. When she says, “You don’t know me,” what she really means is: how could you love me if you truly saw me?
Being unseen hurts, but being fully seen feels even more terrifying.
He, on the other hand, grows up protected to the point of distortion. Born prematurely with a heart defect, he is never told the truth about his condition. Instead, he is constantly reminded that he is “special.” His parents’ fear shapes his identity — particularly when his mother leaves for a period during his childhood, and he hears his father cry in pain, unable to comfort him. As an adult, he chases fantasy, but retreats when relationships become real.
Their connection invites them into a journey through both the beautiful and the unbearable parts of their pasts. What is striking is that they don’t simply tell their stories — they relive them. Memory becomes embodied. Pain is not analysed from a distance but experienced somatically, emotionally, visually.
From an art therapy perspective, this feels significant.
Much like in creative therapy, healing here doesn’t come through words alone. The journey allows space for:
the body to remember,
the nervous system to respond,
and emotions to surface in images, sensations, and movement.
They travel much of this journey together, bearing witness to one another’s vulnerability. Yet there are moments — such as her encounter with her deceased mother — that must be faced alone. The film captures an important truth: some aspects of healing require companionship, and some must be walked independently. In this way, their shared journey becomes a starting point rather than a solution. While the relationship opens the door to healing, it is the individual work they do alone that removes the obstacles that might otherwise keep them apart as their connection deepens.
He offers her unconditional love — loving not only the parts she is proud of, but also the parts shaped by grief and fear. He does not want to change her. Yet she cannot accept this love. To her, it feels too risky, too fragile. She decides it is “not worth it,” breaking his heart.
They separate and return, unwillingly, to their childhood homes. There, something shifts. She is finally able to say a healthy goodbye to her mother. He steps into his father’s role and offers comfort to his younger self — becoming the presence he once needed.
This time, he does not chase her.
Instead, she chooses differently. She decides not to let fear dictate the ending of her story. She chooses the risk of loving him, and with it, a life shaped not by avoidance, but by contentment and connection.
The ending is idealistic. And perhaps that is what makes it bittersweet.
Because many of us — myself included — know what it is like to let fear win. To step away from love not because it isn’t there, but because it feels too dangerous to hold.
The film gently asks a question I continue to reflect on:
Will fear continue to write the rest of my story?
In art therapy, creativity offers a way to explore this question safely. Through images, symbols, movement, and making, we can approach our pain indirectly — allowing the body and imagination to speak when words feel insufficient. Like the characters in this film, we are sometimes able to process what hurt us not by explaining it, but by experiencing it differently.
To love, and to be loved, is not just a feeling.
It is a choice — one we often have to make again and again.
