"I’d built up a fantasy of productive bliss: cozy studio sessions and creative flow like a choreographed dance. Instead, I found myself staring at blank canvases." In this post, I...
Seasons of rest are not seasons of failure.
Last week nearly broke me. My beloved dog was in a car accident, and for terrifying hours, I thought I might lose him. In that moment, everything I thought mattered—deadlines, projects, productivity—simply froze. Life has a way of putting things into perspective with brutal clarity. He’s going to be okay, though he is becoming something of a "bionic dog" now. I joke that he's used one of his cat lives, but really, he needs to stop giving me these heart attacks.
But it wasn’t just the accident that shook me. It was winter.
For months, I’d been looking forward to my winter atelier time. I’d built up a fantasy of productive bliss: cozy studio sessions and creative flow streaming like a perfectly choreographed dance. Instead, I found myself staring at blank canvases with zero inspiration. That familiar anxiety crept in—the whisper that says you aren't productive enough, or creative enough. I’d forgotten something crucial: I’m not naturally good at "winter" as a creative mood.
Living in the Southern Hemisphere means our creative rhythms often feel at odds with the global narrative. Even after six years, there are parts of me that desperately want to be in spring and summer mode—dreaming of "Italian coastal fantasies" with pink bellinis and bruschetta. Back in reality, it’s 5 degrees in the morning with fog kissing my windows. The electric mattress is humming, and I'm wrapped in pajamas while my breath creates little air steams in the cold.
Social media floods with summer book reads and beach outfits just as our bodies are naturally craving hibernation and hot soup. This disconnect can make winter feel like creative failure instead of creative rest, as if we should maintain summer energy all year round. Maybe I’m just really bad at doing winter.
In my winter fog, I’d completely forgotten what I’d already accomplished this year:
I realized then that winter isn't about creating more. It’s about letting the soil of our souls rest after intense seasons of growth. When you have new creative ideas sprouting as you're trying to sleep, it's easy to feel like everything is moving so slowly—but that slow movement is the work.
I stopped fighting winter and started living it. I traded creative pressure for creative presence. I started making nourishing winter soups as a grounding practice. I immersed myself in farm life—the dogs, the birds, the sheep. I've built this life, so maybe it's time to actually enjoy it. When we've been in survival mode for a long time, we must learn how to get into "soft mode."
I found simple joy in watching beautiful gardens and royal vibes on screen. Sometimes creativity needs to be fed by beauty, not productivity. Then, without fanfare, creativity whispered back. Not with a breakthrough, but with a gentle urge to return to the desk. I found myself nearly finishing a mural composition in a single evening. It wasn't perfect, but winter creativity doesn't need to be perfect—it just needs to be honest.
Creativity isn't lost during fallow seasons. It's hibernating, gathering strength, and processing the year's experiences into something richer. Just as gardens need periods to regenerate soil, creative minds need seasons of rest to integrate and prepare for new growth. Winter isn't the enemy of creativity—it's creativity's wise teacher.
If you’re reading this from under blankets, feeling like your creative spark has dimmed, remember: you're not broken. You're not failing. You're exactly where you need to be.
What creative seasons are you moving through?
