April Field Guide: Creativity as a Practice of Coming Home to Yourself

The air has that mossy smell again.

The kind that makes you pause at the front door before walking in, just to breathe a little deeper. The kind that feels like a green light from the earth, like she’s waking up, and calling us to do the same. The light lingers longer in the evenings now, casting reflections on the walls and giving everything in my home a soft, comforting glow. The birds are louder in the mornings, too. Not in an overwhelming way, but in a generous one, like they’re reminding us we’re part of something bigger. Something alive.

I’ve been cracking the windows open even when it’s still chilly. There’s something about letting fresh air in that helps me feel more present. More in tune with the world beyond my to-do list. The simple act of welcoming in the outside feels like an offering. A little reminder to come back to myself.

Spring doesn’t rush. It doesn’t bloom all at once. It arrives slowly, in stages—a few warm days, a handful of daffodils, the return of bees buzzing around, never seeming to be in a hurry. And honestly? That’s the rhythm I’m learning to follow, too.

Here in Portland, spring has a bit of a sense of humor. We get three, sometimes four, false springs—teases of warmth and sun followed by days (or weeks) of rain and gray. One minute, you’re packing up for a hike because the weather is just right, and the next, you’re digging out your raincoat again. It’s humbling. And it’s a reminder to pace ourselves, especially when we’re so eager to bloom, to feel better, to move forward.

That start-stop rhythm reminds me that progress and change aren’t linear. Growth doesn’t follow a neat timeline. Just because something doesn’t look like it’s blooming doesn’t mean it’s not changing. Some shifts are quiet. Some healing happens underground. And in this in-between space, I’ve been noticing something shift in how I relate to creativity.

It doesn’t feel like it used to.

Lately, my creativity isn’t about output. It’s not about checking off tasks or sticking to content calendars. It’s not about producing, proving, or performing.

It’s about healing.

So many of us think we’re blocked. Unmotivated. Uninspired. But what if what we’re calling “stuck” is actually something deeper? What if the pause isn’t laziness or lack of ideas… but grief? Shame? Or unprocessed emotions asking to be felt?

For me, creative blocks often show up as perfectionism. Or endlessly tweaking something until I talk myself out of finishing it altogether. And when I slow down enough to listen underneath those patterns, I usually find a younger version of me—afraid of being judged, of getting it wrong, of not being good enough.

That’s why I believe we can’t separate creativity from healing. Our creative energy is deeply tied to our nervous system, our sense of safety, our personal stories. When we feel unsafe—emotionally, spiritually, socially—it’s almost impossible to access joy and flow.

Our inner child, the part of us who knows how to play, who follows wonder, who creates without needing it to be useful or impressive, doesn’t disappear as we age. But they do get quieter when we trade expression for approval. When we’re told to be smaller, quieter, more responsible. When we start choosing safety over self.

Liberation begins when we stop bypassing those parts of ourselves.

When we stop trying to "push through" the block and instead ask:
What part of me needs care right now?

When we begin asking:
Whose story am I living? Whose rules am I following? Who told me I couldn’t be free?

What if creativity wasn’t about content creation, output, or making money—but about reclaiming ourselves?

What if instead of asking What am I making today?, we started asking:
What am I remembering? What am I unlearning? What part of me is finally ready to come forward?

This spring, I’m letting creativity be a companion to my healing.
A mirror. A map. A method for coming home to myself.

I’m letting myself be a beginner again—learning how to play with new tools, draw without purpose, write without editing.

I’m tending to the parts of me that still believe it’s not safe to express or be seen—gently asking them what they need to feel brave.

I’m noticing where I get stuck in “shoulds,” where I shape-shift for approval, where I resist joy because I’m waiting for permission that will never come.

And I’m learning to let progress and projects unfold on their own timeline—not the world’s timeline, not the algorithm’s, but mine.

Because creativity doesn’t thrive in perfection. It thrives in presence.

And presence is only possible when we stop abandoning ourselves.

Creativity as a Practice of Reclamation

These days, the most creative parts of my life aren’t unfolding solely inside a sketchbook or design software—they’re happening in the quiet corners of daily life. In my home. In the soil. In small, sacred acts of care.

We’ve been redoing our kitchen, piece by piece. I’ve been learning how to refinish countertops, retile awkward corners, and patch up quirks in our very lived-in, very imperfect old house. It’s messy. It’s not always Instagram-worthy. But honestly? It’s been so fulfilling.

There’s something deeply satisfying about making a space feel more like you—not for an audience or a big before-and-after reveal, but because you live there. Because it matters. Because standing in a room that reflects the truth of who you are and how you live feels grounding. Human. Real.

That’s creativity, too.

And outside, we’ve been practicing the same kind of intentional care. My partner and I are learning how to tend to the land we live on in a way that feels more reciprocal. More relational. We’ve been pruning old apple trees, turning soil, processing branches to reuse as fencing, mapping out garden beds, and taking our time.

It’s not fast. It’s not fancy. But it’s teaching me to move at the pace of the earth. To let go of urgency and fall into rhythm instead. To measure time in cycles and seasons, not in checkboxes or deadlines.

We are part of this ecosystem—not separate from it. We belong to the land just as much as the trees, the birds, the morning light. And our care—our creative, loving attention—is a form of belonging. A way of remembering that our lives are the work of art.

That same energy has been showing up in the studio, too.

I’ve been letting myself follow curiosity without needing it to be “productive.” I’ve been experimenting with tools I’ve never used before—dabbling in animation, playing with stop motion, exploring new layout styles in Figma—not because I have to, but because I want to. Because I’m learning. Because it lights something up inside of me.

And that alone is reason enough.

Joy is essential. Curiosity is a reason. Wonder is a reason.

We don’t need measurable outcomes to justify our aliveness.

Sometimes we create to heal. Sometimes to feel. Sometimes because it’s the only way to remember who we really are.

And every time we choose to do something simply because it brings us closer to ourselves—we’re not wasting time. We’re reclaiming it.

Creativity Invitations for April

If you’re moving through a season of transition, burnout, or quiet curiosity—here are a few gentle invitations to come back to yourself through creative healing:

Make Something Without a Purpose
Paint without a plan. Rearrange your bookshelves for the joy of it. Doodle with your non-dominant hand. Let the process be the product.

Tend to a Small Piece of the World Around You
Sweep your porch. Water a plant. Clean one drawer with intention. Let it be an act of devotion—your presence is the magic.

Try Something That Scares You (In a Good Way)
Paint a wall a bold color. Take a dance class. Speak your truth out loud. Shift your personal style. Let the discomfort be part of the liberation.

Notice Where You Abandon Yourself
Where do you edit before you’ve even begun? Where do you quiet your own voice? Track the pattern. Then ask: What would safety look like here instead?

Let Nature Be Your Teacher
Go outside and find something blooming slowly. Something not in a rush. Let it remind you: you are allowed to move at your own pace.

We live in a world that constantly tells us to rush. To monetize. To perform. To produce. But we are not machines.

We are humans—tender, dynamic, layered, creative humans.

And when we slow down, when we do the work of healing, when we reconnect with the child within us who still knows how to play, imagine, and dream—we reclaim something that can never be taken from us.

Our agency.
Our presence.
Our joy.

This spring, may we all progress in our own time.
May we choose creativity not as a performance, but as a practice.
Not as a product, but as a pathway.

And may we remember:

You are not behind. You are becoming.

To our healing,
To our freedom,
To our joy,

Natalie Brite
DoGoodBiz Studio