When Your Creativity Says "No"
A note on nervous system care, and creating space for your creativity.
Housekeeping notes: February 2026
I have four openings for creativity mentorship this month.
Creative mentorship is a 12 week partnership for people whose life and work is shaped by creativity and are craving deeper coherence, purpose and impact from their work.
If you’re curious what that looks like or want to book a short meet & greet, you can find in the link below:
Creativity Mentorship Details
I had a love / hate relationship with Instagram.
And then a frustration / hate relationship.
And then an obligation / hate relationship.
And then a grief / hate relationship.
Until finally, it came to a resting place: an acceptance and release relationship.
Many of us creatives found our community in these spaces. I remember when my world opened up with a simple snap and post of a 1:1 frame. Snippets of light. Flowers sparkling with dew in the morning. A rolling layer of fog stretching across the landscape.
See.
Snap.
Share.
It was simple.
It was grounded.
It was grounding for our systems, having a tool in our hand to wander the world with curiosity, gathering and collecting moments of time to put up on a shelf and say:
“Look what feels meaningful and beautiful to me, right now.”
The love, the connection, the community poured in. Suddenly the human experience didn’t feel so lonely. Suddenly there was a world ripe with possibility and exploration.
A beautiful door that made your heart sing? You shared it. Others chimed in. You felt seen.
There was a simplicity in being in our senses and sharing them in ways that created threads of connection with others near and far.
It was a beautiful time to be alive and armed with a camera.
As with everything, the shift came slowly.
Like the frog that will leap from a pot of boiling water, yet remain submerged until boiled if the temperature rises gradually, we creatives sat in a space that felt cozy and comforting while slowly being nudged toward creative death.
Stories.
A non-chronological feed.
Sponsored posts.
Reels.
More sponsored posts.
Pay-to-play boosting.
Pay-to-play verification.
It wasn’t one thing, but a slew of micro-changes that shifted how we interacted: what we saw, when we saw it, and how we reacted to it.
Friends’ content became buried. The feed became a roll of things you were “supposed to like.” Fast-moving videos, music, and dancing filled the screen. Your own work was pushed out.
“Keep up with trends,” you were told.
“Show your face,” you were told.
“Get on video or disappear,” you were told.
Suddenly the glimmers sprinkled across your day, the magic moments of living didn’t matter anymore. The comments dwindled. The sense of community thinned. You’d create from the heart, share it… and find no one there to share it with you.
Our creativity has the spirit of our inner child. It is full of wonder, excitement, awe, and fascination. It wants to explore. It wants to play. It wants to laugh and roll in the grass.
And it wants to do it with others.
When a child who is curious and wild shares endlessly with their parent, one of two things happens:
The parent engages , witnessing them and mirrors back how wonderful it is to be here now.
Or the parent ignores them. Goes silent. Or worse, tells them to behave differently.
What happens to that second child?
They learn their stories don’t matter. They learn their wonder is inconvenient.
So they retreat. They replace their wildness with something more “acceptable.”
We learned to record videos.
We learned to talk to the camera.
We learned to pick trending music.
To dance. To lip-dub. To package ourselves as either entertainment or education.
There was no room for anything else.
This relationship gets even more complicated when creative minds used social media not just for community, but for business.
And yet the root is the same: it taps directly into our sense of safety and belonging, our root chakra, community and resources to stay alive.
Suddenly the game wasn’t: “share what feels meaningful and beautiful today” anymore. It became:
“Grab attention fast. Convince others you are worth engaging with. Repeat this across 3–4 formats multiple times a week.”
It is no wonder we are burnt out.
It is no wonder we are creatively depleted.
We have been slowly cooked to creative death.
Creativity cannot thrive when the nervous system lives in threat. It cannot thrive when we are rewarded for repeating others’ ideas.
I don’t know about you, but I am so sick of scrolling and seeing the same f-ing video over and over.
The same music.
The same lip-dub.
The same eye-catching hook text.
My creative mind wants novelty. It wants the unknown.
It does not want to be drip-fed the same polished, overstimulating, attention-grabbing content.
We have created a culture where what performs well is inherently destabilizing.
Fear-laced hooks.
“Education” that points out what you lack.
Promises of bigger audiences and better metrics if you follow the rules.
This is not just an Instagram problem. It’s a digital culture one.
Instagram and TikTok are like two sisters at the same bar.
One is seated at a table with good lighting, ordering food and drinks for the vibe, making sure brand deals are satisfied and there’s enough B-roll for next week.
The other is pounding whiskey shots, dancing on tables, yelling conspiracy theories while the crowd riots behind her.
Neither is a space for calm, connected, creative living.
That kind of living requires room to unfurl. A deep exhale. A mindset of: “What’s interesting and unfolding right now?”
Creativity requires safety. It requires slowness. It requires a curious and supportive community.
One day I woke up and my inner creator could no longer be strangled into these rules.
“I want freedom,” it whispered.
“I want to play,” it nudged.
“I want to go home,” it said.
Sometimes going home means finding a new home.
And that is how Creating Space was born.
To nurture the spark within you. A place that encourages imagination. A place where small fascinations are welcome.
Not from rebellion. From a quiet pull toward home.
But aren’t quiet acts of homecoming are often the biggest acts of rebellion?
What would it mean for you to create space?