Creativity in the Aftermath

What my creativity looks like in the slow season after burnout, a canceled flight, and becoming someone new.

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December 3, 2025

I’ve rolled over at 3 a.m. again.

The aircon is set to 68, humming its low white noise. I’m curled under my blankets, salt rocks glowing in every corner of my studio. I can’t sleep in the dark anymore, so the soft orange light feels like a small protection. Normally that hum is a lullaby, but something feels off tonight—something I can’t quite put my finger on.

This is what creativity looks like in the aftermath. After burnout. After the flight I didn’t take. After trying to build a new version of myself and wondering if I’m already failing her.

The real reason I’m awake at 3 a.m. is that it’s been weeks since I’ve written… or felt much of a spark at all. I went from waking from nightmares and not sleeping enough to sleeping too much and still needing a nap to get through the day.

This is my first time writing in a while, outside of a few scratchy updates in my journal. I’ve opened my laptop and started freewriting, fingers hesitant on the keys. I never used to see myself as a writer; it came later, like a flood after heartbreak and broken dreams. One day after coming home there was just this pull in my gut, a natural instinct I couldn’t ignore—to write.

It’s been months since words have come easily. If I can even call this easy.

Right now, my creativity feels less like a spark and more like a knotted string of lights—you know the ones. The Christmas lights that have been bunched up in a box for too long. You want to yank and yank to get them free, but you know that’ll only make things worse. Patience has never been one of my strong suits. Untangling them just makes me more frustrated.

The things that once brought me peace don’t anymore. The moment I realized cooking and reading and writing weren’t soothing me, I felt so goddamn lost. Those have been my lifelines and anchors for as long as I can remember. Who am I without them? My therapy used to be spending hours perfecting a new recipe to feed people I loved, or getting lost for days in a new fantasy series.

Now, when I open a book, I feel sad and a little lost that I can’t stick with more than a few pages at a time. My brain feels so full with everything else on my plate that stories don’t give me the same reprieve they once did. These days, the only things that really calm me are sitting in silence under the warm lights of my apartment with soft instrumental music, or watching the sunrise alone off the pier.

If I’m really honest, what scares me most about this season of low creativity is the fear that this path I’ve chosen wasn’t right—that I’m not cut out for all the dreams I’ve spent months slowly building. That I’ve lost something I only just found.

The meanest thing I’ve thought about myself in this season is that this version of me isn’t enough. That taking off the masks somehow made me less, not more.

If someone could see into my brain at 3 a.m., they would see flashbacks of past failures and heartbreaks. Moments I took for granted, opportunities I missed. I always thought there would be more time. It’s in the dark, alone in bed, that those thoughts close in.

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Tipsy’s Fire

The Tipsy Vagabond never knew how to go home.

She was always chasing another story to live and one day tell. Her creativity didn’t live on the page; it lived in the chaos. It lived in rooftops and fire escapes, last-minute flights and strangers who knew nothing about her real life.

Dancing on rooftops in New York City.

Booking one-way flights across the Mediterranean.

Singing and laughing in streets all over the world, with a drink in her hand and not a care in the world.

Crawling into bed at all hours and sleeping for an hour or five, then doing it again the next night.

There were nights I’d never put on Instagram. The mornings that turned into days of self-loathing. Hangovers that went deeper than a pounding head or queasy stomach. The kind of loneliness that feels like it could smother you. I’d spend my nights surrounded by people and my days waiting for the next time I could come alive again, just so I didn’t have to sit with my own insecurity.

Back then, I never wanted to go home because going home meant the party ended and I was alone with myself. I never knew when to call it a night. I was always waiting for the next story to write itself so I didn’t have to write my own.

I laughed off a lot that actually hurt. The fake friendships. The people who would call every night but disappear the second the sun came up. Everyone in the party scene wanting connection over bottle service and never realizing it’s the last place you’ll find it.

Back then, creativity was building a garden in a month-to-month rental in a random city. It was making friends or meeting lovers knowing it would end and not caring when. It was saying yes to whatever the night, the city, the stranger offered. I thought living fully meant saying yes to every experience that crossed my path.

What I miss about her is that she was never afraid of the chapter ending or what it would all mean later. Meaning wasn’t the point. Being there was. Bodies on the dance floor, feet on the cobblestones, a suitcase always half-unpacked in some new room.

I miss the carefree vision of youth—the certainty that I was exactly where I was meant to be just because I’d leapt. I don’t see things that way anymore, and that’s not a bad thing. It’s just different. With age comes wisdom. Slowing down and reflecting is something I’m grateful for.

But I’ll always miss her fire.

I burn like an ember now.

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The Flight I Didn’t Take

Before my first official scouting trip to Ireland, my to-do list could’ve wrapped around the block. I had eight different planning “meetings” with myself and this heavy need to make the trip mean something. This wasn’t just another adventure; it was supposed to be proof that I could do travel differently now—more intentional, more professional, more… grown.

I hadn’t seen my winter clothes in years. A carry-on and a checked bag sat empty on the floor, staring at me. Not a single supplier message sent. I was always “busy,” always sitting down to another session on content, outreach, finances, itineraries, the list goes on. But the bags stayed empty.

Packing has always been my kryptonite. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve moved, how many sublets I’ve lived in, and it’s never gotten easier. My ex used to shoulder that burden; he knew I’d procrastinate until I had a migraine and a meltdown. We were a team.

This was the first big trip since the broken dream of Australia and everything we’d worked so hard for. I knew I was going to need help.

I called a few friends. Most were too busy to make the drive and dig through boxes of winter clothes with me. One girlfriend came. We turned packing into dress-up—trying on outfits for hikes, for pub nights, for chilly supplier meetings and hostel beds. She’s not a traveler, and maybe that’s where we went wrong. She had to leave sooner than I’d hoped, before anything was actually in the bags.

When the door closed behind her, I was left with piles and piles of clothes on the floor and no buffer.

It didn’t take long for things to go south. One minute I was giggling, twirling in a sweater dress; the next, I was curled up on the floor, unable to breathe. Tunnel vision, chest tight, everything closing in.

The thing I didn’t tell anyone about those days was how bad it really was. How I smiled and laughed and “got things done” leading up to the trip while the anxiety kept growing like a mass in my chest. How I kept pushing down every insecure thought until it all burst.

The most shameful thought I had when I canceled that flight was: what if I’m not enough anymore? What if I can’t do this alone?

I’d spent years traveling the world solo and feeling high on life, but after experiencing it all with “my person,” I felt lacking. Like I didn’t have the confidence to run the plan by myself. Like I couldn’t handle the logistics I’d spent my whole life dreaming toward.

If I could name the exact fear under the panic, it was this: I was terrified I was doing it all wrong and wasn’t ready. Not in the “you need to toughen up” way I once believed, but in a deeper way—trying to be someone I wasn’t, at a time when I was still figuring out who I even was.

The worst “what if” I had in my head during that spiral was: What if it all comes crashing down while I’m over there? Not in my safe little apartment, not a short drive from help, but an entire ocean away from everything that feels like safety.

Eventually, I called another friend to come over in the middle of the night because I was too scared to be alone with myself. She spent the night in bed with me while I got a handful of hours of sleep, then woke up panic-stricken again.

It went on like that for another day, until I canceled my flight. I went to stay with family because I couldn’t stand the sight of my half-packed bags, my almost-trip, sitting there like failure on the floor.

The next day I saw my doctor. That’s when I finally got a name for what my nervous system had been trying to tell me.

Another journey began.

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Australia’s Scar

There’s one sentence I’ve never written about Australia before:

I knew that dream was dying the moment my partner stopped taking sunset walks with me… and I eventually stopped going alone.

Something as simple as feeling the ocean breeze on my face, my toes in the sand, looking up at the glowing stars—that used to be everything to me. And then I just stopped. I stopped going outside to feel the night air, stopped seeking the sky. I lost things I never thought I’d lose: my rituals, my curiosity, the quiet ways I’d always come back to myself.

Leaving Australia made me question everything about myself. We compromise in relationships—that’s normal—but I kept compromising until I didn’t recognize myself. Deep down I knew I was with the wrong partner, but I didn’t want to be alone again, starting from scratch. So I stayed.

When the rug was finally pulled out from under me, I had no options left but to leave everything I’d spent years working so hard for.

The ugliest belief I carried home from that experience was: Maybe everyone who doubted me was right. Maybe I really was the girl who didn’t think things through.

Maybe every fear the less-brave people had about my life finally caught up with me, and this time I didn’t just stumble—I fell hard, in a way I never saw coming.

I lost everything I’d spent years building toward when my partner left because I didn’t have a plan B. I was all in. And that loss knocked the wind out of me for a long time.

Leaving Australia broke something deep and vital in me. I don’t think that will ever fully disappear. There will always be a scar.

I’ve spent months working on bettering myself because of it—learning how to work with the pain instead of against it. Realizing it won’t simply go away. This is something I’ll have to learn to live alongside.

And I have. But it means I’m tired too. Tired of things not being easy the way they used to be. Tired of not being carefree.

I also feel resentful sometimes—about how the Tipsy Vagabond era ended. Not by my own choice, but like it was yanked away without a thought to what it meant for me. Like someone ripped away a coping mechanism before I was ready to stand on my own.

Healing has demanded such brutal honesty from me. About where I failed myself. About the ways I wasn’t just a victim but also a participant. It’s meant owning the choices that got me here, which is harder than any “glow up” quote on Instagram ever mentions.

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The Cave and the Alchemist

If Tipsy lived in the noise, the Alchemist was born in the quiet.

The hardest part of becoming the Alchemist is leaving the masks behind—especially the ones I didn’t know I was wearing.

I’ve lived my whole life for others. Sometimes I wanted to. A lot of the time, I didn’t realize that’s what I was doing. Tipsy was always center stage: a laugh, a party, a story to brighten the room.

This summer, I learned it was okay to not be okay. I started learning boundaries and self-respect. I learned that being “nice” never really served me, and I’m slowly understanding the difference between being nice and being good.

I used to think being good to myself meant always being happy. Now I’m realizing it also means being honest, which is much harder.

My cave is my little one-bedroom in downtown St. Pete. The first night I slept here alone, I was on an air mattress on the floor instead of at a friend or family’s house. I’d spent months surrounded by people and I couldn’t bear the company any longer. I needed solitude and quiet to hear myself think—and I finally did.

For the first time in a long time, I felt peaceful alone.

I’ve touched every wall and corner since then: hand-thrifted pieces, soft lighting, pink lace curtains framing my bedroom door, greenery in every room, fantasy books piled high, mismatched kitchenware, bags of bath salts and essential oils, candles stacked in the closet so I never run out.

Sometimes when I look around this apartment, the feeling that catches in my throat is: This is mine. The first place that’s truly been all my own—and it shows.

One thing I secretly miss about not living alone is the help when life is heavy. Someone to clean the dishes after I’ve meal prepped. Someone to put laundry away, to help make the bed, to share the invisible load of daily life. The little things you take for granted in a shared home.

My days are still full. My schedule is often packed: the bar job, the business, the endless little tasks that keep a life running. There’s no partner to split the chores with. I’m the only one making the bed every morning, cooking the meals, folding the laundry. There’s always something to do, for the business or for myself.

But I choose me now.

Sometimes at the expense of others. Sometimes at the expense of the old me who would’ve said yes to everything and everyone. Filling my own cup still feels selfish on some days, but I’m learning it’s necessary. This season may not be what I wanted, but it’s what I needed.

The hardest and most beautiful part of becoming the Alchemist is looking into my own ouroboros (yes, that one—thank you Sarah J. Maas) and seeing every “despicable and unholy” inch of myself without flinching. Accepting every part. Not running.

Learning to love the good with the bad, on the days I feel strong and on the days I absolutely do not.

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When Creativity Needs the Slow Season

So what if my creativity actually needs this slower season?

I’m starting to realize it does.

I’m not done becoming yet. I’m building and learning and bridging gaps inside myself I never knew were there. Maybe my creativity isn’t gone—it’s just resting, like I’m supposed to be. Letting the experiences steep.

The signs are there if I’m willing to see them. My voice feels different, deeper, even if I’m writing less. I’m still processing. Still learning what all of this means for me, and how I’ll use it as fuel for the future—fuel for the trips I’ll design, the stories I’ll tell, the people I’ll take with me.

The ideas never stopped. They’ve been waiting. Piling up quietly in the corners of my mind for a morning like this, when the lights are glowing and the world is quiet and I’m finally ready to write them down.

The small, almost embarrassing hope I still have for my writing is that it brings me peace—and eventually brings someone else peace too. That I’m not just bleeding on a page, but writing from a scar someone might take solace in someday. That this voice will fuel my business, my credibility, and actually mean something.

If I let myself be 10% more honest in this piece, I’d admit that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’m throwing a reel with no bait into the ocean and hoping for a catch. I’m scared readers will judge me for not having it all figured out—for not knowing any more than they do.

The truth is: I don’t.

I’m just brave or crazy enough to write while I figure it out.

Maybe I haven’t lost my spark at all.

Maybe it just stopped being a wildfire and became an ember—steady, glowing, waiting for me to tend it instead of burn myself out on it.

Right now, my creativity is a tangled string of lights. I’m tired and the knots are tight, but I’m not yanking at them anymore. I’m sitting with them, gently loosening one section at a time.

I knew this road wouldn’t be easy or quick.

I just didn’t know how heavy it would feel.

But I’m still here.

I’m still showing up for myself, one quiet morning at a time.

For this season, that’s enough.