Essays: Rediscovering My Creativity

How I found my way back to the things I love and embraced a new flow after motherhood

Photo by Guillermo Álvarez on Unsplash

As a teenager, I found myself wrestling with insomnia. Each night felt like a battle, tossing and turning in the narrow confines of my twin bed. I would often lie there, staring up at the ceiling, as my thoughts drifted to far-off realms of fantasy. In those sleepless hours, I imagined myself as someone else, someone extraordinary—a visionary artist, a prolific writer, or even a sorceress commanding wild, untamed magic. I could converse with creatures of fur and feather, conjuring worlds where sleep was an afterthought. Anything to escape the relentless reality that sleep refused to come.

Eventually, I would surrender to the sleeplessness, abandoning any pretense of rest. Instead, I would lose myself in books, devouring entire volumes from dusk until dawn, or pour my teenage struggles into poetry. Often, I found myself wandering down to the kitchen just as the coffee pot clicked on, brewing the morning’s first pot for my parents. I’d pour a cup and step onto the patio, sketchbook in hand, as the first light filtered through the trees bordering our yard. There, I would witness the world slowly come to life—the birds’ morning chorus, the squirrels tentatively emerging from their nests. I still have an old sketchbook with a stained page, marked by a red berry dropped by a chattering squirrel perched above me one morning.

Many years, countless experiences, relationships, jobs, and homes later, I find that the once-plentiful time for creativity has dwindled to mere fragments. Sleepless nights are no longer the result of insomnia but the tender demands of a newborn. As time passed, early bedtimes became a necessity, dictated by the need to rise with the sun for school drop-offs and the long commute to work. My creative pursuits, once abundant, have become rare, like treasured relics gathering dust. The time to indulge in them has grown even scarcer, slipping through my fingers like sand.

Though my life was filled with joy and love, there was always a quiet ache, a sense that something essential was missing. I buried this feeling beneath the routine of life’s demands, pushing forward. But eventually, the realization caught up with me: somewhere along the way, I had lost my creative outlet and drive, that vital part of myself that once thrived on art and writing.

When I finally confided this to my spouse, their unwavering support became a beacon, urging me to rekindle my creative spark. With their encouragement, I began to explore the paths that still whispered to me. Finding quiet, uninterrupted time as a parent is a rare luxury, especially in our bustling little household. I started by exploring Instagram before bed, scrolling endlessly, discovering artists who boldly shared their work with the world. The more I explored, the more inspiration I found, and the more my own creative energy began to stir.

I bought myself a new sketchbook, relishing the scent of the freshly bound pages. During my lunch breaks at work, I would sketch, feeling the familiar comfort as the graphite glided across the paper. It was a rediscovery, a long-missed part of me slowly coming back to life. As my desire to do more with my sketches grew, so did the questions—how would I find the time to take my sketches from paper to screen?

My spouse made it possible for me by stepping into the role of Ringmaster for the few precious hours it would take on a weekend afternoon, allowing me to immerse myself in my artwork. At first, I was overwhelmed with guilt—guilt for leaving the weight of the household on their shoulders, guilt for not putting our son first during those fleeting hours. It felt selfish, like I was shirting my responsibilities for a mere hobby.

With gentle reassurance from my spouse, I began to understand that these moments of solitude weren’t indulgences; they were essential. Gradually, I came to terms with the idea that this time for myself didn’t make me a lesser partner or parent. Instead, it made me feel whole again, more focused, and more present for my family when we were together.

As time passed, my creativity ebbed and flowed with the seasons—sometimes leaving my sketchbook untouched for weeks at a time. Guilt would wash over me, and I’d think “I can’t keep giving up on things that bring me joy.” I had to learn to accept that creativity was much like a winding river carving its way through the landscape. There are moments when the flow dwindles to a mere bubbling brook, only to roar back to life around the next bend.

The next turn in my creative journey led me back to writing. I can’t pinpoint what reignited the spark, but I found myself devouring articles on writing prompts, sharing your work online, and keeping the inspiration alive. I watched talks and workshops from accomplished authors on YouTube, which helped me understand my creative process and where to begin. Soon, the ideas swirling in my mind began to flow onto the page—or screen, in this case, like a river swollen by a sudden downpour.

As I look to the future, I have come to accept that I cannot predict where my creative journey will take me. I’ve surrendered to the gentle flow of the seasons, each bringing new experiences and deeper fulfillment. None of this would have been possible without my spouse, quietly cheering me on and offering the grace I needed to explore myself. For that, I am eternally grateful. Rediscovering yourself is not always a solitary journey; it’s one where your circle of support gently lifts you up and ushers you down your path.

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