People like to imagine creativity as this magical thing.

You wake up inspired, pour yourself a cup of coffee (or diet coke), sit down, and effortlessly create something beautiful. A painting. A poem. A photograph. A song.

I wish it worked like that.

The truth is that creativity often disappears when I need it the most.

When my mental health takes a turn, the first thing to go is my ability to create. Ideas become foggy. Every drawing looks wrong before I even finish sketching it. Every sentence feels awkward. Even picking up my camera can feel exhausting.

The frustrating part is that creativity isn’t just a hobby for me.

It’s how I process the world.

Photography helps me notice details I would otherwise miss. Writing helps me untangle thoughts that feel impossible to explain out loud. Drawing lets me create people and places that don’t exist anywhere except in my imagination.

When I lose those things, it feels like I’ve lost part of myself.

For a long time, I fought against that feeling.

I’d sit in front of a blank page waiting for inspiration that never came. I’d compare my current work to things I’d made months earlier and wonder what happened. I’d convince myself that maybe I wasn’t creative anymore.

But creativity doesn’t disappear.

Sometimes it just goes quiet.

I’ve started learning that creating doesn’t always have to mean making something impressive. Sometimes it’s taking one photo on a walk. Sometimes it’s scribbling nonsense in a notebook. Sometimes it’s opening my drawing program, making a few lines, and closing it again.

Not every piece has to become a masterpiece.

Sometimes the act of creating is enough.

I’ve also realized that creativity has seasons.

There are weeks where ideas seem endless. Other times, everything feels empty. Neither season lasts forever.

I’ve stopped trying to force inspiration. Instead, I try to make space for it.

I go outside.

I watch birds.

I notice the way sunlight filters through leaves or how rain changes the colours of the sidewalk. I collect little moments without expecting them to become anything. More often than not, those moments eventually grow into ideas.

And on the days when they don’t?

That’s okay too.

Being creative isn’t a test I’m trying to pass. It’s a relationship I’m trying to nurture.

Some days that relationship looks like finishing a project.

Other days it looks like simply believing I’ll create again.

If your brain has been telling you that you’re not creative anymore, I hope you know this:

Your creativity hasn’t abandoned you.

It might just be resting.

And that’s allowed.