There was a time when my creative spirit showed up everywhere—like glitter at an arts and crafts party. It got into everything. Teaching, storytelling, even rearranging the spice rack felt like an act of expression. I was a voracious reader, an obsessive tinkerer, a forever-curious soul who saw the world as one big “What if?”

At some point, that version of me went quiet. I’m not sure exactly when—there was no dramatic farewell, just a slow fade-out, like a song you didn’t realize had ended until the room got weirdly quiet. These days, my neurodivergent mind still craves knowledge and creative outlets, but more often than not, I find myself deep in thought about deep thoughts, stuck somewhere between philosophical musing and wondering where I put my keys.

But lately—just lately—I’ve felt flickers. Sparks. Like my old creative self is peeking around the corner, whispering, “Hey, remember me?” And I do. I remember the energy I poured into my work, my art, my ever-expanding list of random obsessions. I miss that version of me. Not because they were perfect (they definitely weren’t), but because they felt alive. Balanced. Energized by the act of making, learning, wondering.

The past few years have been, shall we say… character building. Life has thrown its fair share of curveballs—some of which I caught, and others that smacked me right in the metaphysical face and left me feeling unbalanced.  I’m older now. Wiser, maybe. Tireder, definitely. But I’m also beginning to believe that I don’t have to go back to who I was. I just have to make space for who I still am.

With a little effort, a little discipline, and maybe a strong cup of coffee (or three), I can invite that creative spirit back in—awkwardly, imperfectly, joyfully. Because I don’t want to just think about ideas. I want to make things again. 

Even if they’re weird. 

Especially if they’re weird.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.