I didn’t know what I was making. I just knew I needed to make something.

So I just sat down and started.

No expectations.

No audience.

No edits.

Just a quiet space,

a piece of paper,

Or a pan.

Or a patch of earth.

and a willingness to try.

It wasn’t beautiful.

Or anything worth sharing.

But I came back the next day.

And the day after that.

Not because I had a goal.

But because something in me was softening.

Something I couldn’t name—but wanted to be near.

Over time, a rhythm started to emerge.

Not one I built.

One I noticed.

It felt less like “getting creative”

and more like reentering something sacred.

I started to realize:

Creativity wasn’t just helping me feel more like myself.

It was helping me feel more with God.

Maybe the making was never the point.

Maybe it was the way back to presence.