Meet Shumaila Nemat Ullah

We were lucky to catch up with Shumaila Nemat Ullah recently and have shared our conversation below.

SHUMAILA, we’re thrilled to have you sharing your thoughts and lessons with our community. So, for folks who are at a stage in their life or career where they are trying to be more resilient, can you share where you get your resilience from?

I don’t know why I chose this question to answer, because frankly speaking, it’s a tough one. But as I sit and write about it, I exactly know how I feel but I am not sure if I will be able to put it into words. My resilience is woven from the life of a man who lived with unwavering strength, boundless love, and an unshakable spirit—my father. He was not just a man who endured, he was a man who created, who gave, who loved without expectation. He had a heart vast enough to embrace the world, and a mind rich with art, literature, and poetry. Through his words, his stories, and the way he moved through life, he painted the world with love, asking for nothing in return.

But life tested him. It stripped him of things most would never recover from. He lost, he stumbled, he fell—but he never surrendered. He rebuilt, again and again, refusing to let misfortune dictate his destiny. Even in loss, he found meaning; even in suffering, he found poetry. His resilience was not just survival—it was the art of beginning again, of finding light even in the darkest corners.

Even when COVID took him away, he fought till the last breath. He was a sportsman, a warrior in body and soul, undefeated in spirit. His entire life was a testament to the belief that no setback is final, and that as long as we are breathing, we must keep moving forward.

So now, when I stand on the edge of despair, when life tries to break me, I hear his voice, steady and sure, asking: Will you give up? Would I have given up? And the answer is clear—no. I will carry his fire within me, just as he carried his, and I will continue to move forward, not just for myself, but for him.

Thanks, so before we move on maybe you can share a bit more about yourself?

I paint what cannot be spoken. I bleed colors onto canvas, letting pain drip through every stroke, every smear, every violent collision of light and shadow. I think my art is not meant to be pleasing—it is meant to be felt. It is grief tangled in ink, love buried beneath layers of color, rage scratched into existence, and survival whispering through the chaos. It is the quiet scream of those who have known suffering, those who have walked through fire and emerged—scarred, but alive.

My work is for the ones who understand what it means to break and still keep moving. For the ones who carry ghosts in their chests- for the ones who have looked at their own reflection and seen a stranger staring back. It is for those who have stood at the edge of darkness and dared to step forward.

Some will turn away. Some will say it is too raw; too unsettling. But those who have known true pain will see themselves in it. They will see their own battle, their own survival: their own aching beauty. And they will know they are not alone.

This is more than art. This is a love letter to every soul that has been shattered and stitched itself back together.

If my work speaks to you, find me here on Instagram:
@the.poetic.artistery.studio
@_schumyla.nematullah

Looking back, what do you think were the three qualities, skills, or areas of knowledge that were most impactful in your journey? What advice do you have for folks who are early in their journey in terms of how they can best develop or improve on these?

Looking back, my journey has not been easy—it has been a battle. A war between the past and the present, between pain and survival, between breaking and rebuilding. If I were to name the three things that have shaped me the most, they would be Resilience, Emotional Depth, and Fearless Expression. Not qualities, not skills—lifelines.

Resilience – Life does not wait for you to be ready. It will shatter you without warning, leaving you to pick up the pieces with trembling hands. I have learned that no one will hand you strength—you must forge it from the fire of your own suffering. When everything inside you screams to give up, keep going. Even when it feels like you’re crawling. Even when it feels like you’re losing. Keep going.

Emotional Depth – Some people move through life untouched, while others feel every wound like an echo that never fades. I am the latter. My art exists because words often fail. There is no easy way to carry grief, heartbreak, or the weight of things unspoken—but I have found that creating something out of that pain gives it purpose. If you feel too much, let it bleed into your work. Let it turn into something that speaks for you.

Fearless Expression – The world prefers silence. It is easier to look away than to acknowledge what is raw and real. But I have never been one to stay silent. My work is not for those who want comfort—it is for those who have lived through fire and are still standing. Speak through your art. Scream if you have to. Do not paint to be liked, write to be understood, or create to please. Create because you must. Because something inside you refuses to stay buried.

To those just beginning—don’t be afraid of your darkness. The world will try to quiet you, to make you softer, more palatable. Resist. Your pain, your love, your rage, your survival—all of it matters. Let it live in your work. Let it remind you that you are still here.

How would you spend the next decade if you somehow knew that it was your last?

The hardest battles are the ones you fight in silence. The ones that no one sees—the ones that suffocate you in the middle of the night when the world is asleep, and you are left alone with your thoughts.

Losing my father wasn’t just loss—it was the kind of grief that buries itself in your bones, a wound that never truly heals. He was my protector, my guide, my only and unwavering support in a world that often felt unkind. And then, one day, he was gone. Just like that. And with him, a part of me disappeared too. PTSD is not just a term doctors use—it is waking up gasping for air, it is breaking down over a scent, a song, a memory so strong it feels like he’s right there—until reality shatters the illusion, and I am left grasping at nothing.

Now, I walk through a world that feels foreign, in a country that offers opportunity but no familiarity. USA (Where I am currently doing my post-graduation in business management) is a new beginning, but it is also an endless reminder of what I left behind. The streets don’t feel like home, the air doesn’t smell like the past I long for. I am here, alone, trying to build something from the ruins of my old life while my body fights battles of its own—health issues that only add to the exhaustion, the weight pressing on my chest.

And yet, I do not stop. Because giving up is not an option. Because I owe it to the little girl I once was—to the girl in my homeland who looks at me and thinks, If she can do it, maybe I can too. I fight through the pain, I create through the suffering, I pour my soul into my art because that is the only way I know how to breathe. My paintings are not just colors and lines; they are the screams I never let out, the tears I never shed, the love, the loss, the death, the survival.

Not everyone will understand. Not everyone is meant to. But for those who have known real pain—for those who have fought just to wake up the next day—this is for you. We are still here. We are still fighting. Even when the world tries to bury us in darkness, we find a way to create light.

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