Jocelyn Catterson shared their story and experiences with us recently and you can find our conversation below.
Good morning Jocelyn, it’s such a great way to kick off the day – I think our readers will love hearing your stories, experiences and about how you think about life and work. Let’s jump right in? What is something outside of work that is bringing you joy lately?
My garden, for sure. It’s been such a good year for flowers. I love sitting on the porch with my coffee in the morning, watching the hummingbirds and bees dart around. The dogs and cats stretch out under the sunflowers, soaking up the early sun, while the chickens scratch around in the scraps and weeds I toss their way. Even weeding feels kind of holy sometimes, like this small act of devotion. You notice the tiny changes from one day to the next, and it makes you slow down. The garden reminds me to pay attention.
Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
My name is Jocelyn Catterson. I live in the San Luis Valley of Colorado, and I wear a lot of hats: artist, environmental educator, conservation advocate, and more. Everything I do comes back to this place and this community. I’ve always been drawn to the places where disciplines overlap, where seemingly disconnected ideas can be connected to solve real problems.
I never liked science classes growing up, but I love science. So I use art to make ecology and water issues easier for people to understand and connect with. I want people to see the species that live here, or the way water moves through this valley, in a way that feels accessible instead of dry and technical. I love learning about the ecology of this special place and translating that through art so people who don’t usually see themselves as “science people” can connect with it. I paint signs with my best friend for local businesses, which is something that started as a side gig but turned into one of the most grounding and joyful things I do. I write music with my partner, Gabe, under the name The Beauty & The Horror, which lets me process my existential dread and the extremes of living here. And I work as Community Engagement Director for the Rio Grande Headwaters Land Trust, where I spend a lot of time with ranchers, farmers, and community members around conservation, water, and mental health.
From the outside, all of this might look disconnected. But for me, it’s all the same thread: showing up for my community, listening to what’s needed, and coming up with creative ways to respond.
Okay, so here’s a deep one: Who were you before the world told you who you had to be?
I love this questions because my 30s have been about coming back to myself: the version of me that existed before I started molding myself into what other people thought I should be. As a kid, I was what I’d call an “outgoing loner.” I loved being outside on my own, making up projects, drawing, writing songs, getting messy and creative. But I also cared about showing up for people in ways that felt natural to me. The best version of me is still that mix. I think about the teenager who spent nights in a friend’s garage making music or in the darkroom developing photos, that kid who was just following curiosity and joy. Somewhere in my 20s, I lost all of that. I became such a people-pleaser, working way too much, chasing the version of success I thought I was supposed to want, ignoring what I actually needed, and giving so much of myself to other people.
Now, I know the real me thrives when I’m creating, when I have plenty of solitude, when I keep a small circle of close friends, and when I can pour myself fully into passion projects. I like being deeply invested, not spread thin. Getting older has meant unlearning the need to impress or overextend, and instead remembering that I’ve always been happiest when I’m making things, spending time outdoors, and connecting with my community in real, honest ways. That’s who I was as a kid, and who I keep working to return to. A work in progress.
What have been the defining wounds of your life—and how have you healed them?
I got divorced before I turned 30, and it changed everything for me. I had spent most of my 20s working too hard, chasing things that I thought were going to make me happy because that’s what society told me: marriage, a house, a good job… When COVID hit, like so many people, I had this reckoning. I realized I was miserable living this life I had built around other people’s expectations. So I let it all go. And honestly, that process was so much harder than I expected. It wasn’t just walking away. It was grieving a version of myself, grieving a whole imagined future. It took years to rebuild, partly because I had spent so long not even asking myself what I actually wanted, which makes me so sad to think about.
What helped me heal is tied to the last question about my authentic self. I started to heal through art and being outside. I painted, I wrote, I walked, I sat with myself. Slowly, I started to rediscover the parts of me I actually love. It wasn’t quick or neat, but I came out of it with a life that feels more like mine. More of a real choice.
So a lot of these questions go deep, but if you are open to it, we’ve got a few more questions that we’d love to get your take on. Is the public version of you the real you?
This is a “yes and no” kind of question for me. People often think I’m extroverted because of how I show up: smiling, talkative, engaged in my community. But the truth is, I need a ton of alone time. Being around people, even the community I love, drains me fast. I recharge in solitude. Social media adds to that illusion, right? It looks like I’m always making, always doing. But really, the sad days, the angry days, the quiet days: that’s the fuel for all the visible stuff. I just don’t share it as much.
That said, I try hard to be as real as I can. In a small rural community, authenticity matters. Farmers and ranchers can smell bullshit from a mile away. So I show up as myself: tattooed artist, conservationist, unconventional but honest. If I’m having a bad day and someone asks, I’ll tell them the truth. I’ll post about being stuck on a painting or messing something up. The public version of me is still just a slice. The private me leaves laundry everywhere, forgets to eat, has no idea what she’s doing half the time, but keeps going anyway. I’ve found that showing up honestly makes space for others to do the same.
Before we go, we’d love to hear your thoughts on some longer-run, legacy type questions. What is the story you hope people tell about you when you’re gone?
I want people to say: she cared. That she was passionate about her community, about water, about art, and that she showed up in ways that mattered. I want my art to inspire people to look closer at the world around them, at the water, the plants, the animals, this whole ecosystem, and to see it differently. I want it to give people permission to talk about their struggles, or to feel inspired to learn something new, or to feel more connected. More than anything, I want to be remembered as a spark. Someone who lit something up in people, whether that was curiosity, courage, or compassion. And if, when I’m gone, that spark is still burning in this little community and rippling outward, then I did what I came here to do.
Contact Info:
- Website: https://www.jocelyncattersonart.com
- Instagram: @artofjocelyncatterson @thebeauty.thehorror
- Other: https://open.spotify.com/artist/3jwtdvPXwCzAcisdU3cI4M?si=nEcJqwqbTs2uFpQzBpfY8g
Image Credits
Tintype portrait taken by Shane Martin Smith
