The Creative Detour

For the past almost three years writing has been my constant. Not my job. Not my obligation. Not even my greatest achievement. But my constant, nevertheless.

It became the one place I could retreat to when life became loud. The one thing I could rely upon when everything else felt uncertain. It didn't judge me, argue with me, or demand anything other than showing up. Some days I produced a thousand words. Other days fifty. Occasionally I just stared at the blinking cursor and questioned every life decision that had led me there.

Still, I showed up. Until I didn't. Looking back over the last twelve months, I honestly don't know why I expected what I did from myself.

In the space of twelve months I packed up an entire house, untangled a marriage, started a new business, watched my children graduate into adulthood and somehow entered the thirteenth year of menopause. Yes, apparently that's a thing. Somewhere in the middle of all that I also decided increasing my exercise routine sounded like an excellent idea. It actually was. My body has never felt stronger. My brain, however, occasionally looked at my to-do list and simply laughed.

My children reached milestones that reminded me just how quickly time slips through your fingers. Graduations have a funny way of making you simultaneously proud, emotional, and vaguely ancient.

Then there was the travelling. In the space of just a few months I travelled more than I probably had in the previous several years combined. Wonderful experiences, absolutely. Brilliant memories to cherish. However somewhat less brilliant for maintaining any sort of writing routine.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, my brain developed an exciting new hobby.

Overthinking every single conversation I had had over the previous twelve months. That’s a lie. The previous twenty-three years is more accurate. If overthinking was a sport, I’d have a sponsorship deal by now.

Individually, none of these things would have derailed my writing. Together they formed the perfect creative storm.

At first I didn't really notice. Missing one writing session became missing two. Two became a week. A week became a month. Eventually writing stopped being something I naturally did and became something I kept meaning to get back to tomorrow.

Tomorrow is a dangerous word. Tomorrow quietly becomes next week. Next week quietly becomes next month. The strange thing is I never consciously decided to stop. Life simply became heavier. And when life becomes heavy, something has to give.

Sometimes that's perfectly okay. I think we live in a culture that glorifies relentless productivity. The message is always the same. Keep pushing. Keep grinding. Keep creating. Do it all. No excuses.

But life doesn't work like that. There are seasons where surviving is enough. There are moments where healing deserves priority over word count. Hell even just acknowledging the need to heal takes time to come to terms with.

If you're navigating major life changes, trying to force creativity can actually become another source of pressure instead of the refuge it was supposed to be. I genuinely believe there are times when giving yourself grace is not only acceptable, but necessary.

Had someone else described my last year to me, I would have immediately told them to stop being so hard on themselves.

"You've got a lot going on."

"Take your time."

"The writing will still be there."

Amazing how much easier it is to extend compassion to everyone except ourselves. The problem comes when grace quietly morphs into avoidance. That's where I find myself now. The chaos has begun to settle. (almost) The boxes are unpacked, so are the cases for the eighty fifth time. The biggest emotional earthquakes have passed.

Life is finding a new rhythm. And yet... I'm still not writing. Every time I opened my laptop I found another task that somehow felt more urgent. The time I had was never enough. Eventually even opening the manuscript started to feel uncomfortable.

That little voice inside my head has started whispering something I wasn't expecting. Guilt. Not because I've failed some imaginary productivity challenge. Because I abandoned a friend. Writing carried me through some of the hardest chapters of my life.

It gave me somewhere to place emotions I couldn't always articulate aloud. It transformed pain into purpose, confusion into creativity, and uncertainty into stories. Fiction became my escape from reality by allowing me to build another one. One where people didn't leave. Where love endured and wasn't something you had to question. Where promises were kept.

Research has consistently shown that expressive writing can help people process difficult experiences and improve emotional wellbeing, and I have absolutely found that to be true in my own life.

Some of my darkest days became bearable because I had somewhere to pour them.

Somehow, I forgot that. I convinced myself I didn't have time.

The reality is I stopped making time. There is a difference. That realization stings a little. The irony isn't lost on me either. During one of the busiest years of my life, the very thing that had always helped me navigate difficult seasons became the first thing I sacrificed.

Perhaps that's human nature. When we're overwhelmed, we often abandon the very habits that help us most. Exercise. Reading. Sleep. Creativity. Healthy eating. Selfcare.

We tell ourselves we'll return once life calms down. Sometimes we do. Sometimes we need reminding. I think that's where discipline quietly steps back into the picture. Not the aggressive kind. Not the guilt driven, shame filled version that tells you to write five thousand words every day or you're somehow failing. Just gentle consistency.

Perhaps twenty minutes. Perhaps a single page. Perhaps opening the document without expecting brilliance. Because routines aren't rebuilt through giant leaps. They're rebuilt through tiny acts repeated often enough to become familiar again.

I've also realized something else. Maybe I don't need to return to the exact routine I had before.

That version of me lived in different circumstances. Different house. Different marriage. Different responsibilities. Different emotional landscape.

Trying to recreate that routine exactly is probably unrealistic. Instead, I need to build one that fits who I am now. One that accepts this new season rather than constantly comparing it to the old one. Will the words come immediately? Probably not.

They may stumble back awkwardly, like old friends who haven't spoken in a while. They may need a little encouragement. So do I. The important thing is showing up again. Because stories are patient. They wait. Characters wait. Ideas wait. They don't disappear simply because life interrupted them. They quietly sit in the background waiting for you to remember that they were never demanding perfection.

Only presence.

So, this week I'm opening the manuscript again. Not because I have a deadline. Not because I owe anyone another chapter. Because I miss it. I miss disappearing into imaginary worlds for an hour. I miss conversations with fictional people who somehow make more sense than real ones. I miss creating something that didn't exist yesterday.

Most of all, I miss the version of myself who remembered that writing wasn't another item on my to do list. It was where I went to find myself. And I think it's finally time to go back.

After almost twelve months of silence, even one sentence feels like coming home.