A Soul Truth From the Quiet Places

Last fall, I sat at a retreat tucked away in the stillness of the season—leaves loosening, light softening. I hadn’t come with a plan, only the ache of needing space. Space from the noise. Space from the narrative. Space to listen.

Somewhere between the silent mornings and shared circles, it arrived—not with thunder, but with a whisper that felt older than me:

“I am being revealed to myself.”

There wasn’t a single moment of revelation.

No lightning bolt. No sky-splitting “aha.” Just a slow, quiet unfolding—a soft rhythm of noticing, creating, retreating, returning.

I used to think my path had to make sense in hindsight. That all the creative experiments, the shifting seasons of my life, the pauses and pivots, would eventually lead to a singular destination. A place where I could say, “Here I am. This is what I do. This is who I am.”

But the truth? That place never quite arrived.

Beginning can feel like the hardest part.

Whether you’re returning to your creativity after a long pause or standing on the edge of something entirely new, it’s easy to get stuck in the swirl of “Where do I start?” and “What if I get it wrong?”

I’ve been there, too. More than once.

There’s something that happens when you pause long enough to hear yourself.

Not the to-do list voice. Not the self-doubt voice. Not the echo of all the things you think you should have accomplished by now.

But the voice underneath. The one that says,
This is where I am.
This is what’s stirring.
This is what wants to become.

You don’t always call it art.
Sometimes it’s the way you tear the edge of a receipt and tuck it into your notebook.
The way you pause at a faded photo in a thrift store bin, feeling its weight even before you know why.
The way you arrange your day around a sliver of light that only enters your studio at 3 p.m.

You are already creating.

You don’t need permission to begin.
You’ve already begun—in whispered ways, in gentle acts of noticing, in the quiet gathering of a thousand small things.

Some days, beginning is the bravest thing we can do.
Not because the act of creating is hard—but because we are carrying so much tenderness.

Tenderness around time, energy, confidence.
Tenderness around “getting it right” or “not wasting it.”
Tenderness around wanting it to mean something.

And sometimes what we really need… is a permission slip.

Your story is layered.

It holds threads of joy and ache, growth and unraveling, silence and song.
It isn’t linear or tidy—and it was never meant to be.

But it is yours—and within it lives a kind of radiant wisdom that cannot be taught, only lived.

There’s something sacred about the moment you sit down to create—not to produce or perfect, but simply to be with your own creative unfolding. In a world that moves fast and praises output, choosing to tend your creativity with gentleness is a quiet act of resistance. And a radical act of self-trust.

In a world that prizes output and urgency, soul-tending can feel radical. But here, within the rhythm of The Soulful Journey, it is essential.

To nurture your soul is to honor your inner landscape as sacred.
It’s to slow down long enough to hear what your heart is whispering.
It’s to understand that the quiet moments—the tea breaks, the morning pages, the walks without purpose—are not distractions from your art.

They are the art.

There is a spark in you.

It’s not something you have to earn, prove, or explain.
It’s there when you’re painting at the kitchen table, scribbling in a notebook, arranging wildflowers in a jar, or letting your mind wander in the shower.
It lives in the little moments of curiosity, intuition, and beauty-making that come so naturally, they’re easy to overlook.

Maybe it’s been weeks… months… even years since you last touched a paintbrush, opened your notebook, or sat in stillness with yourself and a blank page. Not because the desire isn’t there — but because life got loud, and your art got quiet.

You are not alone in this.

There are seasons when the throughline feels clear—when the work flows, the pages fill, and your hands know exactly what they’re doing.

And then there are seasons like this one.

When what you have are pieces.
Snippets.
Whispers.
Unfinished phrases. A color that won’t leave you alone. An image you keep sketching again and again. A sentence you tear from a book and tape to your wall, not knowing why.

This, too, is a kind of making.

This is gathering.

There is a quiet kind of knowing that lives in your hands.

It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t demand perfection.
Instead, it hums beneath the surface—steady, lived-in, true.

This is the wisdom you’ve earned through experience, through showing up, through years of becoming. And in the creative life, it’s often the very thing we forget to trust.

There are seasons when our creativity feels clear and alive — when we know what we want to say, what we want to make, how we want to show up.

And then there are the other seasons:
The in-between.
The tender.
The uncertain.
The layered.

A Creative Path Through The Soulful Journey

There comes a moment—often quiet, sometimes sudden—when the urge to prove or perfect begins to soften. In its place, something deeper begins to stir: a gentle call to turn inward, to create without urgency, and to honor the wisdom etched into your becoming.

There’s a certain kind of beauty that doesn’t shout.
It gathers slowly. Softly.
It doesn’t demand attention—it invites presence.

Lately, I’ve found myself drawn to that kind of beauty.

Not everything begins with a bang.
Sometimes, the beginning is a whisper.

A rustle in the leaves.
A half-formed sentence in the dark.
A longing that arrives before you have words for it.

If you’ve been feeling it too—the pull to slow down, to gather what’s been scattered, to return to something ancient and quietly yours—you’re not alone.

We don’t always tell our stories in straight lines.
Sometimes, they emerge through torn paper and soft edges, through marks made slowly, intuitively.
Sometimes, the story needs space to unfold—not in bold declarations, but in quiet gestures and subtle textures.

This is the language of layers.

Have you ever felt drawn to vintage materials—the timeworn pages, the delicate textures, the whispers of forgotten stories? There’s something magical about layering old and new, blending ephemera with paint, ink, and intuition to create something uniquely yours. If you’ve been yearning to infuse your art journaling practice with a deeper sense of meaning and creative play, my new Found & Layered workbook is just what you need.

There’s something alchemic about stepping into a new country, breathing in unfamiliar air, and letting your senses guide your creativity. My art workshops in Portugal and Paris weren’t just about making beautiful travel journals—they were about becoming more fully ourselves through the act of creating in places steeped in history, charm, and inspiration.