I used to think creativity came naturally. Something that feels this organic to who I am clearly just happened. Therefore, it didn’t need care.

How naïve was I?

I used to think I could access that part of me at any time. That no matter what I did, it would always be there.

How selfish was I?

I honestly thought as long as my mind could function and my fingers could type, I’d have a story to share and a narrative to write.

How silly of me.

That’s not how creativity works. It requires space. It requires thought. It requires a certain responsibility. You must feed the rumblings when they’re begging to be fed.

I haven’t done that. No, not recently.

This realization came to me through watching others do everything I have not. Others who took time to nurture their souls and make time for their craft.

I’ve been listening to music I feel in my bones. Music that feels tangible, like I could hike through it and come out the other side.

I’ve been looking at gorgeous photographs that stir something within. They make me crazy with words I can’t seem to grasp ahold of.

I’ve found it in sentences that paint a picture of complexity very simply. Sentences so rhythmic they could stand alone as poems. They speak to me. But it seems I’m struggling to speak the same way.

There’s a lot of deep reflection in seeing others do. There’s pride in knowing people who tend to what fulfills them. In watching them create space in the world to experience it fiercely and report back.

There’s also a sadness. I’m not doing that. What used to burn bright is just dark gray ash. It feels as though my voice is a thumb tirelessly rolling on a flint wheel. Never giving way to flame.

And yet, it’s my fault. I didn’t leave margin for inspiration. I didn’t make time to contemplate. Instead, I sat still. I let my day-to-day work override the beauty of my experiences. I let it suffocate the light.

And that, I’m not okay with.

This year, I will allow myself to exist in whatever capacity fills my heart. It will change – everything does. But for now, I will purposefully leave room for passion. For this passion and any other. And I know it will all come back to me.

For it’s a slow burn waiting to roar.