There was a time when creativity was just a part of who I was.
I didn’t question it. I didn’t analyze it. I didn’t wonder if it was useful or productive or worth anything to anyone else—it was simply something I did because I loved it.
Art was my favorite class growing up, and that love carried me into one of my first big life decisions. I chose art school over pursuing soccer in college, trading what might have been a more traditional path for something that felt more aligned with who I was at the time. I moved to Portland with this quiet belief that I would build a life around creating something beautiful.
And in so many ways, I loved that chapter. I loved the feeling of possibility, of being surrounded by people who were expressing themselves freely. I loved wandering around the city with my camera, taking photos just because something caught my eye. I loved how natural it all felt—how creativity wasn’t something I had to think about, it was just something I moved through.
But somewhere along the way, that began to change.
It wasn’t one big, dramatic moment. It was quieter than that. A slow shift into questioning what I was doing, what it would lead to, whether it made sense. I started thinking about the reality of the path I was on—the debt I would take on, the degree I wasn’t even sure I wanted to use—and those thoughts slowly began to outweigh the feeling that had brought me there in the first place.
So I went home.
And when I did, I started searching for something that felt more legitimate. Something more practical. Something I could explain.
Something that made sense.
And without fully realizing it at the time, I began to distance myself from the creative part of me that had once felt so natural. The girl who painted, who doodled, who took photos just because she wanted to… she didn’t disappear all at once, but she did get quieter. Easier to ignore. Easier to label as something less important.
For a long time, I treated creativity like it was optional. Something I could come back to later, once everything else was figured out.
And then I became a mom.
And something shifted in a way I didn’t expect.
I started watching my daughter move through the world—painting, coloring, creating with this kind of uninhibited joy that doesn’t question itself. She didn’t ask if what she was making was good. She didn’t wonder if it was worth anything. She just created because she wanted to, because it felt good, because it was part of who she was.
And in watching her, I realized how far I had moved away from that version of myself.
Not because I didn’t love creating, but because somewhere along the way, I stopped believing it mattered.
Motherhood didn’t just change my priorities—it held up a mirror. It showed me what it looks like to create without pressure, without expectation, without needing it to be anything more than what it is.
And slowly, that part of me started to come back.
Not in the same way it existed before, and not all at once, but in small, quiet ways. In moments where I felt pulled to pick something up again, to make something, to express something that didn’t need a reason behind it.
The way I approach creativity now feels completely different than it used to.
There’s no urgency in it anymore. No pressure to turn it into something bigger or faster or more impressive. It doesn’t feel like something I need to prove or perform—it feels like something I’m returning to.
Almost like reconnecting with a younger version of myself, the one who sat at the kitchen table coloring just because she wanted to, without any thought about whether it was good or worthy.
That’s the energy I’m finding my way back to.
There’s a softness to it now, but also a kind of respect I didn’t have before. I see how easy it is to lose touch with this part of yourself, how quickly it can get pushed aside in favor of things that feel more urgent or more important. And because of that, I’m more intentional about protecting it.
I’m also a lot less interested in the things that used to shape how I created.
I’m not interested in how fast anything comes together.
I’m not interested in creating for anyone else’s approval.
I’m not interested in whether something I make is considered good or worthy enough.
Because I’ve already lived what happens when creativity becomes something you measure instead of something you experience.
And I don’t want to go back there.
These days, creating looks a lot more like real life.
It looks like choosing to create even when there are a hundred other things that could be done. Even when the house isn’t perfectly in order, even when the kids are running around and the day feels full and loud. It looks like letting my life influence what I make instead of trying to separate the two.
For a long time, I thought creativity needed perfect conditions—that I needed uninterrupted time, a clear mind, a quiet space.
But now I’m learning that it can exist right in the middle of everything.
That it can be shaped by this season instead of waiting for a different one.
And so I’ve started.
Not in a polished or fully formed way, but in small, imperfect steps. I’ve started writing again, which in many ways is what you’re reading right now. I’ve started reworking my website, exploring what it looks like to create things that people can actually wear and use in their real lives. I’ve started paying attention to what feels meaningful to me, what feels natural, what feels like an extension of who I am now—not who I used to be.
I’ve started playing again.
And of course, there’s still resistance.
There are still moments where I wonder if any of this will matter to anyone else. Moments where I question if I’m too late, if I’ve missed some invisible window, if I should have done this sooner or differently.
Those thoughts don’t just disappear.
But they don’t hold the same power they used to either.
Because I’m not building from that place anymore.
What I’m building now feels quieter, but more honest. It’s not driven by pressure or timelines or the need to prove anything—it’s coming from a place that feels much more grounded in who I actually am and the life I’m living.
Right now, that looks like this.
It looks like writing. Sharing. Rebuilding my website. Exploring ideas. Letting myself be creative in ways that feel natural and true, without needing them to become something bigger right away.
It looks like creating a life I love on my own terms, with my creativity woven into it instead of set aside.
And if you’re in a season where that creative part of you has gone quiet—or been pushed aside in favor of everything else that feels more urgent or necessary—I hope this reminds you that it’s still there.
It doesn’t need to come back all at once.
It doesn’t need to be perfect.
It just needs a little space.
And sometimes, that space looks exactly like the life you’re already living.
I’m really glad you’re here.