On Resistance, Permission, and Beginning Again

When I sit down with the intention to create, what usually shows up first isn’t inspiration — it’s avoidance. I suddenly find a hundred other things to do. I fall into research mode. I tell myself I need to learn more, know more, be more before I can begin. Somewhere along the way, creating started to feel like something I had to earn.

The voice of fear is familiar and persistent. It tells me I don’t have enough experience. That I’ve been away from my art for too long. That no one will understand what I’m trying to do. That it's too late to start over. That I’ll fail. That I’m being unrealistic. When resistance shows up, I feel it as urgency and distraction — a restless need to do anything except the thing I say I care most about.

So often, that resistance takes the shape of procrastination. Especially while traveling, it’s easy to justify not creating. There are logistics to manage, places to explore, plans to coordinate. All of that is real and necessary — and yet I also know there are small pockets of time where I could pause and make something. I just don’t. I tell myself I’ll do it later, when things feel more settled. And afterward, what lingers isn’t relief, but frustration and disappointment. That quiet ache of knowing I avoided something that actually matters to me.

A big part of this, I’m realizing, comes from fear — especially fear of judgment, criticism, and failure. Fear of seeming flaky. Fear of wanting something too much and not being able to make it work. I think a lot of these fears were shaped by the systems many of us grew up in, where perfection was rewarded, mistakes were discouraged, and productivity was treated as proof of worth. We were taught to aim for excellence, not exploration. To get it right, not to play.

Creating feels especially vulnerable because it’s so deeply tied to who I am. Art has always been the place where I feel most myself. It’s where I feel free, embodied, and alive. When I’m in a true creative flow, I lose track of time. I stop performing. I stop striving. I just am. And maybe that’s part of why it feels so scary — because creating isn’t just something I do; it’s something that touches my identity, my longing, my sense of purpose.

Lately, I’ve been noticing something interesting, though. During this trip, I’ve had a few moments where creating felt surprisingly accessible. I took a tile painting workshop in Lisbon. I did a printmaking workshop in Oaxaca. I’ve spent time returning to drawings I began during my sacred geometry course in Bali. Each time, something softened. I didn’t have to wrestle with resistance in the same way. The structure of a class — the time, the container, the shared intention — made it easier to begin.

There was a kind of built-in permission. I didn’t have to decide whether I was “allowed” to create that day. I didn’t have to justify it or overthink it. I just showed up.

When it’s all up to me, though, I tend to get stuck. I hesitate. I wait until I feel ready. I’m starting to see how deeply this connects to my tendency to look outside myself for cues, validation, or approval. How creating has often felt safer when someone else has sanctioned it. And how part of this season of my life may be about learning to offer myself that same permission — gently, imperfectly, without needing to earn it first.

Right now, I think I’m in what I’d call a long creative winter. A season of uncertainty and rebuilding. A season where not much seems to be “happening” on the surface. And honestly, I’ve been resisting that. I keep telling myself I should be further along by now. That I should be in a more active, productive, visible phase. But maybe this season isn’t something to rush through. Maybe it’s asking to be listened to.

What I’m slowly learning is that creativity has its own rhythms, just like nature does. There are times of growth and output, and times of rest, composting, and quiet integration. Winter isn't death — something is gathering beneath the surface. And even within this quieter season, there are small openings: a doodle here, a few minutes of drawing there, a moment of curiosity instead of judgment.

When I let myself approach art with curiosity instead of perfectionism, something shifts. The pressure eases. The joy sneaks back in. “Good enough” starts to feel more than enough. A few simple marks on a page can be an act of devotion rather than a test of worth. This is one reason I love practices like mandalas or sacred geometry — they invite focus and presence, pulling me out of my head and into the process itself.

Avoiding art costs me more than I like to admit. It distances me from myself. From joy. From presence. And every time I finally do create — even for five minutes — I’m reminded of how nourishing it is. I almost always think, why didn’t I do this sooner?

Resistance, I’m learning, isn’t the enemy. It’s trying to protect me from criticism, failure, and vulnerability. But it also keeps me from the very thing that helps me feel most alive. Part of my work now is learning to thank it for its concern… and choose differently anyway.

As this year comes to a close, I find myself standing at a threshold. Reflecting on what’s been heavy, what’s been tender, and what’s quietly been reshaping me. I don’t have grand resolutions for the year ahead. What I do have is an intention: to meet my creativity with more kindness. To stop waiting until I feel “ready.” To practice giving myself permission — again and again — to begin.

If you’re ending this year feeling stuck, unsure, or afraid to start something that matters to you, please know you’re not alone. Life moves in seasons — and not every season is meant to be active or productive. Creative winters can be quiet, restorative, and deeply purposeful. It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to start small, messy, and imperfect.

Maybe the invitation for the year ahead isn’t to be fearless or disciplined or endlessly productive, but to soften. To get curious. To take five quiet minutes. To make one imperfect mark. To begin with permission rather than pressure.