An Inspired Chat with Aaron Schmit

We recently had the chance to connect with Aaron Schmit and have shared our conversation below.

Hi Aaron, thank you so much for taking time out of your busy day to share your story, experiences and insights with our readers. Let’s jump right in with an interesting one: Have any recent moments made you laugh or feel proud?
Yeah, actually… a few days ago I had one of those moments that really stuck with me. I drove about two and a half hours from my house, right outside Springfield, Illinois, to deliver this huge 5×6 foot custom portrait of Charlie Kirk to his foundation. It was for a Turning Point USA vigil they were holding for Charlie.

I pulled up thinking I was just there to drop off the painting and bounce. But then someone from the event came up to me and was like, “Hey, would you like to give a speech” I didn’t even think — I just laughed and said, “Oh hell yes.” I had no idea how many people were gonna be there. Later I found out it was over a thousand.

When I got up on that mic, man, I just spoke from the heart. Talked about my story, my art, how creating saved me, and how it all connected to Charlie’s message about truth and freedom of speech. My painting ended up being the backdrop behind everyone speaking that night, which was honestly wild to see. I was standing there looking at it thinking, damn, that’s mine — that came from me.

Everybody who showed up got to sign the painting, which made it even cooler. And when they asked me who I wanted it to go to since I was donating it, I said I’d love for it to go to Candace Owens, since she was close to Charlie. That made the whole thing even more meaningful.

When I finished my speech, (5 whole minutes) I got a standing ovation. I didn’t expect that at all. People came up afterward shaking my hand, telling me how my story inspired them and how it took guts to get up there and say what I did. That part hit me hard — it made all the long nights, all the chaos, all the work worth it.

Driving home that night, I felt proud of myself. Like, really proud. Not just for the art, but for saying yes when I could’ve said no. For showing up. For standing there and speaking my truth in front of all those people. It was a crazy, amazing night — one I’ll definitely never forget.

Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
Yeah, so my name’s Aaron Schmit — some people call me the Trash Daddy of Fine Art. I paint with acrylics, but really, I paint with life. The name “Trash Daddy” came from how I lived previously and how I create now — I take all the chaos, pain, rebuilds, and wreckage — the “trash” life throws at you — and turn it into something worth looking at. My art’s not about being perfect; it’s about being real. It’s how I survived.

I’ve lived a few lives already. At 16, I was a professional wrestler — traveling, performing, chasing that rush. From 16 to 31, that same world had me chained down by severe alcoholism. It damn near killed me more than once. But today, I’m 5 years and 5 months sober — and painting’s what got me here. The day I quit drinking was the day I picked up a brush. I never painted a single thing while I was still drinking. Every stroke since has been a piece of my recovery.

Art became the thing that pulled me out. I’ve painted over 230 canvases in my *Trashflower Collection* — each one different, each one carrying a story, a heartbeat, a scar. They’ve shipped out to 45 states so far, even made it all the way to Hawaii, Alaska, and across the border into British Columbia. My work’s even hung in the Crozier Collective Gallery — wild to think about, considering where I started.

My paintings aren’t about perfection — they’re about truth. They’re loud, emotional, messy, human. I want people to *feel* something when they see them. I want them to see that even when life falls apart, there’s still color buried in the chaos. My art’s about resilience, destruction, and the weird kind of beauty that grows out of both.

What makes my work different is that I’m not hiding behind it — I *am* it. Every layer’s got a piece of me in it. And when people come up at shows or message me online saying my work makes them feel seen, or less alone — that’s what it’s all about for me. That connection.

Right now, I’m working on a new body of work that digs even deeper — exploring the tension between chaos and calm, destruction and creation. I’ve also started speaking at events, sharing my story, showing how art can rebuild a life that’s been burned down to the ground. Never thought I’d be the guy standing on stage talking about my past — but now it’s one of my favorite parts. Reaching people face-to-face, showing them they’re not broken… they’re just becoming.

So yeah, I’m not your typical “fine artist.” I’m just a guy who’s been through hell, fought my demons, and found a way to turn all that pain into color. If my story or my work sparks something in someone else — that’s what makes it worth every damn bit of it.

Appreciate your sharing that. Let’s talk about your life, growing up and some of topics and learnings around that. Who saw you clearly before you could see yourself?
That’s my Mamaw.

She saw me before I even knew who I was. Before I thought I deserved anything. Before I had a clue what I was meant for. She didn’t just look at me — she saw me. The mess. The fear. The broken parts I tried to hide. And somehow, she believed in me anyway.

She took custody of me, my little brother, and my sister when I was seven. Seven years old. Most people would’ve folded under that kind of weight, but not her. She just stepped up — no questions, no complaints. She carried us like it was nothing, like we were the most important thing she’d ever hold. She’s the reason I’m still here. The backbone of my life. The quiet, unshakable force that kept me standing when everything else was falling apart.

Even when I got into pro wrestling, she was right there cheering me on. Mamaw was one of my biggest supporters during that whole chapter — sitting in those crowds, watching me beat my body to hell and back, proud no matter what. She believed in that dream, even when I was lost in it.

And she’s still beside me now. She helps me package every single painting that leaves my studio — every box, every label. There’s a little bit of her in every piece I send out. She’s not just my grandma — she’s *Mamaw*. She’s part of the foundation that built me.

What hits hardest is that she’s seen it all. She saw me at my lowest — deep in addiction, lost in the chaos, unsure if I’d ever crawl out. And now she’s seen me five years and five months sober, doing what I love, living again. She watched me fight my way out of hell and never once stopped believing I could. That kind of quiet love hits different.

Every brushstroke I make, every story I tell, every time I stand on a stage — it’s because of her. She’s my north star. My anchor. My reminder that I was worth saving.

Mamaw didn’t just believe in me — she saw me. Fully. Even when I couldn’t see myself. And because of her, I get to stand here now, doing what I love, knowing that someone loved me enough to never give up.

What fear has held you back the most in your life?
The Fear of Being Nothing

You ever stare into a mirror long enough that it starts to feel like you’re looking at a stranger?
Like your reflection’s just some ghost wearing your skin?
Yeah. That was me.

I wasn’t scared of failing — hell, failure was familiar.
I’d failed more times than I could count.
Failure’s simple: you fall, you get up, you keep moving.
What scared me was what came after —
the quiet.
That echo that crawls into your chest and whispers,
“You don’t matter. You never did.”

That was the real fear —
not monsters, not pain, not death.
Just the thought of being nothing.
Of living loud, burning bright,
and still leaving no mark when the smoke clears.
The fear of disappearing while still breathing.

So I tried to fill that emptiness with noise —
people, parties, fake highs, fake love,
chaos dressed up as purpose.
I built armor out of ego,
wore adrenaline like cologne.
But underneath all that noise,
I was coming apart. Quietly.

Addiction wasn’t about chasing a high —
it was about hiding from the mirror.
And when I crashed —
when that car spun out, metal twisting, glass raining —
it wasn’t random. It was the universe throwing a brick through the window of my illusion.
Time slowed down just long enough for something greater than me to whisper,
“Are you done yet?”

And somehow… I walked away.
No cuts. No bruises. No broken bones.
Just broken truths.
Everything I thought I was — gone.
The invincible kid, the performer, the loud one — gone.
All that was left was the raw version of me I’d spent years running from.

But here’s the thing — I didn’t paint right away.
Not after the wreck. Not in 2010.
I spent years lost in chaos, trying to rebuild myself, drowning in booze, climbing out of one mess only to fall into the next.
It wasn’t until June 2020 — the day I quit drinking for good — that I picked up a brush.
That’s when I started telling my story in color.
Every stroke since then has been survival.
Every canvas a confession.
Every drip a scream I never said out loud.

That paint isn’t just acrylic — it’s my blood, my guilt, my redemption.
It’s the way I stay alive when the fear creeps back at 3 A.M.,
whispering, “What if it’s not enough? What if you fade again?”

I paint like my life depends on it — because it does.
When I stop creating, I start disappearing.
The canvas is where I face myself without running.
It’s where I prove, over and over again,
that I’m still here.

I’m not scared of dying anymore.
Death’s too quiet, too peaceful.
What scares me now is going numb again.
Letting life dull my edges.
Becoming background noise in my own story.

So I stay loud.
I stay messy.
I stay real — unfiltered, unpolished, alive.
Every drip, every smear is proof that I existed.
Because if I’m gonna be here,
I’m damn sure gonna matter.

And if you’re reading this —
if any part of this hits you —
then maybe you’ve felt it too.
That ache to be seen.
That hunger to mean something.
That quiet war that nobody else can hear.

Just know this —
you’re not alone in it.
And maybe… just maybe…
the thing that almost destroyed you
is the same thing that’s trying to set you free.

Alright, so if you are open to it, let’s explore some philosophical questions that touch on your values and worldview. What important truth do very few people agree with you on?
The truth almost nobody agrees with me on? Pain, chaos, destruction — they’re not enemies. They’re guides.

Most people spend their lives chasing comfort. Chasing neat houses, predictable routines, polite conversations, the illusion that life is under control. They’re told that suffering is bad, that fear is weakness, that chaos is something to run from. And most of them obey. They build walls so high around themselves they can’t even hear their own heartbeat anymore.

But here’s what I’ve learned — the hard, ugly, undeniable truth: the darkness teaches more than the light ever will.

Think of life like a forest. Most people walk the paved paths — neat, safe, predictable. But the forest isn’t alive on the paved path. The forest is in the tangled thorns scratching at your arms, the trees fallen across your way, the mud sucking at your boots, the night so black you can’t see your own hand in front of your face. That’s where life whispers the truths you’ll never hear standing safely on the edge.

I’ve been there. I’ve stared straight into my own wreckage — addiction, crashes, nights I swore I wouldn’t survive. Most people would call that destructive. A mess. A failure. A danger. But I see it differently. That wreckage was a mirror. The chaos was a teacher I couldn’t ignore. Every sleepless night, every fear I tried to outrun, every scar I carried — it was carving me, shaping me, forcing me to see who I really was beneath all the bullshit.

Here’s the kicker most people can’t swallow: the things that scare you the most? That’s exactly where you need to go. Fear isn’t your enemy. Pain isn’t your enemy. The storm raging inside you isn’t a curse — it’s a compass. It points toward truth. Toward growth. Toward a life you actually feel instead of just surviving.

Most people want to be safe. But safety is static. Safety is death dressed in beige. To live, to really live, you have to step into the chaos. You have to bleed your story. You have to face the abyss without flinching. Life will strip you down to the bone. And if you’re brave enough, you’ll rebuild yourself in fire, in color, in honesty.

That’s why I paint. That’s why I survived wreckage and addiction. Because the canvas doesn’t care about comfort or fear. It only asks: what are you willing to bleed to show your truth? Every brushstroke becomes confession, redemption, survival. Every color a scream nobody else wants to hear. And yet — that’s where meaning lives. That’s where being alive begins.

Here’s the truth most people will never admit: if you avoid the chaos, hide from the pain, sanitize your story, you’ll never exist fully. You’ll never leave a mark. You’ll never matter.

I don’t buy that. I’ve stared into my own abyss. I’ve danced in my chaos. And I’ll never go back. Fire burns. But it also illuminates.

If you want to be truly alive… don’t fear the storm. Step into it. Let it carve you. Let it teach you. Let it make you unforgettable.

Before we go, we’d love to hear your thoughts on some longer-run, legacy type questions. What do you think people will most misunderstand about your legacy?
What people will probably misunderstand about my legacy…
is that it was never really about art.

They’ll see the paint, the colors, the chaos on the canvas and assume it’s expression. Creativity. A talent to admire from a distance, like a fireworks show you watch but never touch. But for me, it was never about making something pretty or perfect. It was about survival. About refusing to vanish into a life that kept trying to erase me, like ink bleeding through paper, impossible to reclaim.

Every piece I made came from a battlefield. Sometimes the enemy was addiction, sometimes fear, sometimes just staring into a mirror and hating the person staring back. Every brushstroke was a scream that couldn’t escape my throat. Every smear of color was a heartbeat, proof I was still breathing, still clawing through the wreckage, still refusing to disappear like dust in the wind.

Most people will probably assume I was fearless. The truth? I was terrified every damn day. Terrified I’d fail, terrified I’d fade, terrified I’d let the wreckage win. But I learned how to move through that fear instead of letting it crush me. I didn’t conquer the darkness — I danced in it. I let it speak, let it guide me, let it shape what I had to say. Fear became a teacher instead of a jailer.

And here’s what most people will never understand: the finished product is a lie. They’ll look at the brushwork, the colors, the chaos and think I’m “healed.” They’ll think the storm is gone. But healing isn’t a clean river. It’s a swamp — full of relapse and rebirth, fire and ashes, loss and redemption. It’s jagged, messy, alive. And most people don’t want to see the mud in their shoes.

What I want people to understand — what I hope they take away — is that my legacy isn’t about skill, fame, or applause. It’s about turning wreckage into meaning. About taking the debris life hurled at me — the fires, the crashes, the nights that felt endless — and making it bleed color instead of blood.

Maybe that’s why it’s misunderstood. Because most people want a hero without scars, a story without the ashes, a storm without the lightning. My legacy isn’t neat. It isn’t comfortable. It’s raw. It’s messy. It’s human. And that’s the part most people will never fully see.

And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. Because the truth is, I wasn’t creating for anyone else. I was creating to survive. To feel alive. To throw my scream into the void and know, finally, that I mattered.

And somehow, in the process, I left a trail of color behind me — a map for anyone willing to step into the wreckage and keep walking anyway.

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