Backdraft: What Is Left Behind Part One: The Creative Fire
As I lean into learning about my neurodivergence, I've been reflecting on the way creativity shows up in my life. It feels like something is always smoldering under the surface, waiting for me to bring the fuel, the oxygen and light. If I start to fan the flame, even a little, WOOSH, it takes over my life. It’s exciting, fast-paced, and leaves very little behind. All that energy, burnt up. And me, left exhausted. In a co-working group the other day, I actually described the feeling that comes up when I think about what happens afterward as terror. I feel terrified of what is on the other side. The more awareness I bring to it, the more I realize this cycle doesn't quite work for me. Yet.
If I am honest, I absolutely love these episodes of high-intensity creativity (and/or productivity). But I'm becoming increasingly aware of the exhaustion they leave behind. How do I pace myself so I don't burn out? How do I feed that creative ember more steadily, keeping a constant low flame instead of something that burns so hot and leaves so little behind?
Last week I launched my new website, and I am really proud of it. It represents months of thinking, dreaming, writing, planning, and figuring out how to bring the different parts of myself and my work together in a way that feels authentic. For the first time in a long time, I feel like my professional life is beginning to reflect the whole of who I am. The therapist, the teacher, the intuitive, the advocate, the coach, the woman who believes deeply in the healing power of connection and community (and who charges water and crystals under the Full Moon). It is definitely still a work in progress, not "done," not perfect, but I just needed to get it out there. Quite literally (it is a requirement for one of the practices I contract with and my old website was no longer really reflective of my work as a whole).
While the website was months in the making, the final push to publishing was over the course of one short week. Five days. One of the things about my particular flavor of ADHD is that when I get into a creative flow, I can go for hours. And hours. And hours. It's an almost manic kind of energy and leaves very little room for remembering that I haven't eaten lunch, or breakfast, or taken my meds, or that my first client of the day is coming up and I should think about the state of my hair. The tricky thing is, I LOVE it. There is something absolutely intoxicating about being in that flow. My brain feels alive. I'm making connections, seeing possibilities, bringing ideas into being. The creativity itself is deeply nourishing. Until it isn't. Somewhere along the way, I stop noticing what my body is telling me. I stop making room for the ordinary things that keep me grounded.
I don't think the answer is to shut down the creative fire. That part of me is precious, sacred even. It brings joy, purpose, curiosity, action and a sense of connection to the world and the affirming and liberatory practice I strive for. It's part of what makes me who I am, and I have no interest in extinguishing it. But as CHANI says in my horoscope today, “There’s a fine line between celebrating your passions and getting swept away.”. So perhaps I can learn to tend this ember of creativity a little differently. To notice when it's warming me and when it's beginning to consume all the oxygen in the room.
To give you a behind the scenes peek into my brain and creative process, over the course of preparing for my website launch last week, a side quest in the navigation bar led me to a decision to launch a six-week group for neurodivergent women, femmes and non-binary folks alongside my website (with a membership community not far behind). Both are ideas I care about, and both are things I still want to bring into the world. But this week I'm realizing that I don't need to do all of it right now. Not all at once. What I actually need is to focus on the work already in front of me. Growing from part-time to full-time in a way that is sustainable. Showing up for the people I work with. Writing when I have something I want to say. Being present with my family. Spending time outside. Remembering that I have a body that needs more than caffeine and the occasional banana.
I'm also reminding myself that growth doesn't always look like expansion. Sometimes growth looks like closing the laptop, putting down the marker and post-it notes, and allowing the things I've already planted to take root. I'm not particularly good at this yet. And I'm still not entirely sure how to keep that creative ember burning steadily instead of letting it flare up and consume everything in its path. Maybe learning to tend the fire means paying attention to what it actually needs, rather than assuming the answer is constantly feeding it more fuel.
As I bring more awareness to these patterns, I'm beginning to realize that learning to tend the fire is only part of the work. Because what happens when I finally stop feeding it? What comes rushing in when I make room to wait, to integrate, or to simply be?
And that, it turns out, is a whole other kind of fire.
