This morning, I hiked a mountain.
Nothing dramatic. Just a quiet trail, uneven steps, and the kind of stillness that clears your head. For a while, I felt calm. Present. Like I’d finally remembered how to breathe.
Then something small knocked the wind out of me. A message, a moment, a flicker of disappointment I didn’t expect. One of those tiny emotional bruises that shouldn’t matter, but still somehow do.
I let it sting for a bit.
Felt the ache without pretending I didn’t care. Then I ordered ice cream, made a decaf coffee, and put on Andor. No overthinking. No spiraling. Just something soft and slow to remind myself I was okay.
It wasn’t a groundbreaking moment—but it was a choice.
A quiet, deliberate return to myself.
This is how I’ve been learning to write lately, wounded, but still here.
We like to imagine creativity arrives on perfect mornings, with clear minds and clean desks.
But more often, it shows up through the fog. Through frustration.
Through the heaviness we carry but don’t always name.
Some days, writing is structured and satisfying.
Other days, it’s sitting with your own discomfort and not walking away from it.
It’s choosing not to give up on the work or on yourself.
I didn’t write much today. But I stayed.
I didn’t chase clarity.
I didn’t try to force anything.
And maybe tonight, I’ll put a few words down.
Or maybe I’ll just rest.
Either way, I’m still a writer.
Especially on the days when I feel like anything but.
If you’ve ever tried to create something while holding onto a quiet ache...
you’re not alone. I’d love to hear how you move through those days.
Drop a comment or DM me on Instagram @creativemindhabits.