Oh, to be a child again.
Back then, creativity wasn’t something I did—it was who I was.
Scribbling, painting, acting, spinning flags through the air, rearranging furniture, braiding hair, writing poems on scraps of paper or napkins—I lived for it.
Art class. Theatre. Color and Winter Guard. English essays. Travel journals. Doodles in the margins while my teacher talked us through the lesson of the day.
I could spend hours creating something no one asked for, just because it brought me joy and excitement.
And yet… somewhere along the way to adulthood, I started measuring everything by its usefulness.
Its productivity.
Its profitability.
Its ability to help others.
(Raise your hand if you’ve ever been personally victimized by the productivity police. 🙋♀️)
The Creatively Starved Grown-Up
It’s been 10 years since I graduated high school.
A whole decade. Already?! Also: Only?!?!
That concept alone makes me want to crawl under a fuzzy blanket with snacks.
And the truth is, while my creative spark has never stopped flickering, I haven’t really let it dance freely in years. I started believing my creativity had to earn its keep. That it needed to become something useful or monetizable in order to be worth my time.
Somewhere between trying to make a living and trying to make a difference, I forgot that simply creating was enough.
The Magic Never Left—It Just Got Quiet
But lately, I’ve been remembering.
Sometimes in a lightning bolt kind of way.
But mostly in the soft, sneaky, heartwarming way that memories often arrive.
Like when I found dusty notebooks stored in my sister’s garage—full of doodles, paintings, and dramatic journal entries from airports around the world.
When I stumbled across an old Google Drive folder filled with poems and Canva designs.
When I looked back at photos of myself in the gardens at Sustainable Kashi—spreading, leveling, and edging mulch into cute little wavy paths (because yes, even mulch can be art).
Delicately transplanting baby plants into bigger pots.
Feeling entranced painting colorful signs for the garden beds.
Dreaming up permaculture home designs on SketchUp.
Piecing together Canva presentations for eco-workshops and community events.
I realized:
“Oh right. I’m an artist.”
And maybe you are, too.
Even if you’ve forgotten.
Even if you haven’t picked up a paintbrush, pen, or slab of clay in years.
Even if your creativity looks like cooking soup, rearranging plants, or dancing and sliding around the kitchen in your socks.
Let’s Stop Waiting for Permission
Here’s what I’m learning (or re-learning, again and again):
✨ Creativity doesn’t have to make money to be meaningful.
✨ You don’t need to earn rest or play or wonder.
✨ There’s no such thing as “too late” to begin again.
So here I am, beginning again.
I’m dusting off the blog—giving my creative side some fresh air and a digital playground. I’m also exploring a novel concept (literally), rearranging my bookshelves based on the inspiration or wisdom I most need right now, and slowly decluttering my closets. I’m allowing myself to doodle on paper scraps again, plugging into the local community garden volunteer opportunities, and (maybe the hardest part), I’m practicing swapping out social media scroll time for journaling.
Little by little, I’m letting creativity guide me home.
Because that naturally creative part of me is still here.
Curious as ever.
Ready to play.
And maybe—just maybe—this little post will help you remember a part of yourself, too.
The part that loves to explore.
To imagine.
To daydream.
To make things for the joy of it.
Thanks for wandering through these words with me.
I’m so glad you’re here. 💛
Let’s Keep the Magic Moving
If you’re feeling up to it, would you share a thought with me?
What creative spark have you been quietly carrying with you?
Want to give it a little room to breathe today?
With so much love,
Amy
Leave a Reply