Moving into Wholeness (and What It Requires).
Several years ago, I gave myself permission to explore my ideas to their fullest. I couldn’t pick just one.
I let go of timelines, sales goals, and marketing strategies, and instead turned inward—focusing all my time and energy on what was right in front of me and what I wanted to create from that space. Motherhood, home life, tending to Self.
In that space, the types of ideas and visions I had surrounding my work began to change. I no longer had “business ideas,” or thoughts of how to turn my art into products. I stopped thinking about how I could “teach” what I was doing to others—things I had been researching for years, trying to learn how to “operate like a business” as an artist. All the models I had studied suddenly felt like noise.
When I let those things go, a whole new line of work began to emerge.
I began to see complete collections of art. Songs seemed to pour endlessly from the sky. I felt a deep inner pull toward long-form creation—books, albums, and bodies of work that would unfold over years.
It challenged me in every way, because I knew that to turn away from the quick-hit projects I was sharing (and the momentum they were generating) would mean sacrificing visibility and income, just like it did when I stopped painting quotes and commissions to discover my painting style. I knew this shift would feel similar; anytime I change direction in my work, it takes time to build, and time for others to catch on.
But I owed it to myself to try.
I would rather create what’s most true for me than perpetuate systems that don’t allow me to express myself fully.
So I turned inward toward these new ideas. I asked what they required of me.
And the answer wasn’t what I hoped for.
Time and space.
At first, I fought it.
My brain can see how quickly I could make things happen. I know how to execute, how to move, how to launch. I’m seasoned by now.
So when life didn’t line up as fast as I imagined—or when obstacles and heartbreaks got in the way—I felt defeated. I tried to push through… Until life broke me open and forced me to stop.
Some people might call what I experienced depression. But I think it was life teaching me patience, trust, and maybe... to get over myself.
After countless examples of “it’s not going to happen as fast in reality as it does in your mind,” something in me finally clicked.
I had to re-conceptualize what I was doing. I used to fully embody every creative identity—when I was painting, I was a painter. With music, I became the singer, the producer. With writing, the writer. I'd immerse myself so deeply in each that when the project ended, it felt like I had to shed a skin.
But that started to feel disjointed. I’d come off a high—singing onstage, connecting deeply with people—and then what? Go back to work the next day like it didn’t happen? Like I wasn’t changed by it?
Something was off. So I zoomed out.
Farther than ever before.
I let go of all the ideas I had about who I was or what I was building.
I stopped trying to hold everything in my head. It felt like I gave every project, every role, every dream some space to spread out around me, like a house I could walk around in when I wanted to look at it all, not a storage space where it was all crammed and waiting for me to bring it into being.
Not disconnected—just no longer crowding me.
And from that place, everything changed.
I no longer saw myself as fragmented—the artist, the writer, the mother, the photographer, the performer.
I saw myself as the creative director of my life.
It no longer mattered which medium I was working in—the goal stayed the same: to bring forth what’s honest and true.
To create what lights me up and let it move through me. To share light in a dark world. To give back what I’ve learned in whatever form it wants to take.
That shift released so much pressure. I didn’t need to be the best at every individual role anymore. I could still pursue excellence, but I no longer needed to pour my entire identity into every separate thing. Because none of them could hold the whole of me anyway.
Sure, in the formative years of becoming who I am as an artist and creator, it was vital that I went all in. That I embodied each role fully. That I spent the countless hours required to understand them, to sharpen the craft, to stretch what was possible. That was how I learned. That was how I grew. It’s how I became who I am today and developed the capacity I have now to grow and tend these larger bodies of work.
But over time, those roles and projects grew, too.
Life expanded.
Responsibilities shifted.
And I could no longer disappear into one singular identity without compromising my wellbeing or the broader rhythm of my life.
Now I transition between them with more space, allowing each to be a part of me without becoming the whole. I return to myself first—asking what she needs—so I can then move into each expression with clarity and intention. It’s like an actor stepping in to play a part, understanding it’s not the totality of who they are when they step out, yet fully enjoying the expression they are called to bring through in context with the bigger picture at play.
It’s not better or worse. It’s just what’s required now.
And more than anything, it confirms what I already knew to be true: I don’t want to build anything inauthentic or unsustainable.
I would rather become less visible for a time to protect the deeper truth of what I’m creating. I would rather disappear into the work and re-emerge when I’m overflowing than overgive to the point of depletion, draining both the creation and myself.
To me, this isn’t “slowing down” or “losing momentum.”
It’s the undertow pulling back before the tide returns. A gathering of strength. A more honest way to move.
Now, I let each creation take up as much space as it wants, even if it takes more time to finish than what my mind would prefer. I move between them as if walking into the backyard to work a garden—tending, pruning, watering—then stepping back inside to the rest of my life.
And when I asked again: What would this way of working require of me?
The answer was clear:
Build a life around what supports your whole—not just the individual things you do with it.
All of this—the letting go, the shifting timelines, the redefining of success—it didn’t come to me overnight. It’s been a process. A long one. Sometimes painful, often humbling, always layered.
But sitting inside it, something changed in me.
I stopped trying to fit my life and work into neat containers and started tending to the whole. And from that place, I started to ask different questions. I started to work differently, live differently, and create with more integrity—not just urgency and excitement (which is fun, but can create a lot of burnout #iykyk).
And if you’re reading this and resonating—especially if you’re navigating your own in-between, questioning the pace, the path, or the purpose—I want to offer a few things that helped me return to myself.
These aren’t rules. They’re reflections. Questions you can sit with.
Your answers will most likely be different than mine, but I trust they’ll lead you where you’re meant to go.
Ask yourself this:
What if your work didn’t have to look cohesive in the traditional sense to feel whole?
What if it already carries a throughline, just by flowing through you?
Often we try to force consistency by shape or structure: similar aesthetics, aligned timelines, polished messaging. But true coherence doesn’t come from trying to make every project match. It comes from the truth of who you are. From the energy that moves through your work. From the pulse that underlies everything you say, create, and share.
That becomes your signature.
Can you tune into it?
Can you recognize what’s already been threading through your work over time?
Look at your body of work—the colors, the themes, the patterns, the feelings. What repeats, even unintentionally? What do people say they feel when they experience what you make?
The more you return to your own inner truth—your values, your essence, your why—the more everything you touch will carry that same resonance. Not because you’re trying to brand yourself, but because you’re letting the wholeness of who you are come through.
Instead of stressing over how it’s all going to play out, ask yourself: “What’s true for me right now, and how can I let that truth shape what I create, share, or offer?”
And instead of obsessing over a strategy to make your work “fit together,” ask:
“How can I honor the larger rhythm of my life, and trust that coherence will come through honest expression?”
Your tone is the thread. Let it weave itself.
Also remember—speed is not always equal to “progress.”
(Wheels spinning, anyone?)
In fact, some of the most transformational work requires a pace that feels slower than what the world around you expects, portrays, or celebrates.
So ask yourself instead:
Where have I been measuring my worth by how quickly I produce or grow?
What am I believing about success that might not actually be true?
What has life already shown me about timing—and am I willing to trust it?
You might notice that when things feel “stalled,” there's actually deep movement happening beneath the surface.
You might find that rushing doesn’t bring alignment, just exhaustion.
You might remember that the most meaningful parts of your journey rarely happened on a timeline you planned.
What if how you hold your work matters more than how fast you release it?
What if the only “strategy” you need right now is how you support the flow of your work through your daily life?
That’s not a small shift. That’s a radical reorientation.
Because when you stop trying to push the work into existence, and instead support its natural unfolding—you also give yourself the care you’ve been craving (which is what creates sustainability when you're in for the long game).
And from there, everything expands.
What if your work is asking for more of you?
Not more output. Not more effort. More presence.
( Wholeness. )
Sometimes we resist our next chapter because it requires us to stretch our identity. It asks us to move from “creator” to “visionary.” From being someone who makes things to someone who stewards an entire body of work.
Have you outgrown the box you once built?
Are you trying to describe a vast, multidimensional calling using words and titles that only reflect one sliver of who you are?
This might be your invitation to expand.
To stop labeling yourself only by medium or role—and instead start tending to the world you’re building. To become the guide, the visionary, the anchor. To let your work evolve from singular projects into presence. From product into medicine.
And with that expansion comes a choice:
Can you slow down enough to reconnect to the deeper essence of your work when the past sense of urgency, rush, or force flares up again? (Because it will.)
Can you return to the place inside you that knows why this matters—and move from there?
Your path doesn’t require more hustle. It requires more wholeness.
Let your presence lead the way.
Living and creating from this level of wholeness will ask something different of you.
It will ask you to trust timing—especially when it doesn’t match your expectations or preferences.
It will ask you to resource yourself before you pour into anything else.
It will ask you to be present with the life already here—not just the work you want to share moving forward.
And in return?
You’ll move from overflow.
You’ll create from clarity.
You’ll reconnect with the joy of the creation process again.
Then the questions shift from “why isn’t this working?” or “why can’t I seem to get where I want to go?” to…
What rhythms support my creative flow?
What can I let go of in order to move more freely?
What vision am I truly in service to—not just this week, but over a lifetime?
You don’t have to map out every step or timeline.
You don’t have to squeeze yourself into quarters or metrics.
You just have to be honest about what’s true for you—and commit to creating from that place.
Because in the end, your wholeness is the work.
And everything that flows from it?
That’s your gift.