There’s a part of the creative journey no one really posts about.
The quiet part.
The stuck part.
The part where nothing flows and everything feels forced.
If I’m being honest—and I promised myself I would be in this space—I’ve been in a creative rut for weeks. Maybe longer.
It didn’t happen all at once. It started with a missed writing session. A skipped idea I told myself I’d circle back to. Then suddenly, I looked up and realized I hadn’t created anything I loved in over a month. Deadlines became background noise. My planner stayed full, but I felt empty.
We don’t talk enough about the silence after the spark. About how hard it is to make art when nothing inside you feels alive. I’ve been showing up for others in every role—writer, mom, wife, friend—but not always showing up for myself. And when that happens, creativity doesn’t feel like a gift. It feels like a burden.
So I’ve been asking myself:
Am I burned out or bored?
Is this resistance—or divine redirection?
Am I doing too much—or not enough of the right thing?
Sometimes, I wonder if my creativity took a walk without me, hoping I’d slow down and catch up.
“The greatest character pursuit one can embark on is maintaining a teachable heart that strives for humility, grace, and understanding.”— Sarah Jakes Roberts, from Woman Evolve
I'm learning this season isn’t about performance. It's about posture. Maybe I’m not here to produce—but to listen. To remain teachable in the quiet. To honor the stillness, even when it’s uncomfortable.
It’s easy to ignore the signs. When you’re used to producing, pushing, and performing, rest can feel like failure. But I’ve started to believe that rest is part of the work. That blank pages and silent days are just as sacred as the moments when everything flows.
“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.”— Anne Lamott, from Help, Thanks, Wow
So I’ve been doing just that. Unplugging. Logging off. Reaching for stillness—not for aesthetics, but survival.
And in that quiet, I’ve also been confronting the deeper truth:
Sometimes we keep creating just to distract ourselves from the life we haven’t made peace with. We keep moving because stillness might reveal a version of ourselves we’re not ready to face. But silence isn’t punishment. It’s preparation.
“To be truly visionary we have to root our imagination in our concrete reality while simultaneously imagining possibilities beyond that reality.”— bell hooks, from Feminism Is for Everybody
bell reminds me that imagination isn’t lost during the block. It’s just underground. It’s in the waiting room, stretching, reconfiguring. And sometimes you don’t know what you’re being prepared for until you walk into it.
The pressure to “keep creating” can be so loud. But I’ve started to redefine what creativity even means to me. It’s not just writing scripts or blog posts or campaigns. It’s also the sacred work of parenting with presence. Of making breakfast with intention. Of breathing deeper and noticing the small things.
And slowly—quietly—I’m beginning to feel something return.
Not a flood. Not a wave.
Just a trickle.
But it’s something.
This block doesn't mean I'm failing.
It means I need a reset.
It means I have to unclench my grip on who I thought I needed to be, and let my creativity lead me somewhere new.
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”— Maya Angelou, from I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Even when it feels like the words are gone, the story is still there. Waiting. Whispering. Rooting for your return.
So if you’ve been feeling stuck, questioning everything, or just plain tired—this is your reminder:
Your creativity isn’t gone.
It’s just asking you to meet it somewhere new.
And when the courage to begin again shows up, I hope you honor it.
Even if it’s just one word at a time.
💬 Let's talk:
Have you ever felt blocked—not just creatively, but emotionally or spiritually? How did you find your way back? Leave a comment or send a message. I’m building community around the pause, not just the performance.
When I feel defeated or blocked, I go back to my older writings—writings that I forgot about. Sometimes, the spark is where you left it. It’s incredible to reread your own words as if you’re reading them for the first time. You’ll impress yourself. You’ll remind yourself of who you are. You’ll have moments where you think, “Damn, I wrote that?!”
Just like an iron or coffee maker, there’s that moment of silence between the time you click the on switch and when the steam arises or the brewing starts. Just because it’s silent doesn’t mean you’re not on.