entry twenty-eight

Monday, April 21, 2025

I sit in front of my art supplies, waiting for something to call to me—but nothing did. I felt stuck. I see pieces of colorful fabric - neat and torn … just like I feel, different yarns and different sized needles, sticks of many shapes and sizes. Should I continue something I have started or begin something new? I feel stuck in the way I sometimes feel planning for my students, staring at a blank lesson plan, knowing I have to teach but unsure how to begin. In both art and teaching, there’s a pressure to create something meaningful, something engaging, something that works. But burnout makes everything feel heavier—like the ideas are there, but out of reach. My mind is clouded, my body tired. 

As a special education teacher, I'm used to adapting, innovating, trying again. But even that flexibility wears thin. When you're always “on,” always planning with individual needs in mind, always holding space for others, your own well can run dry. That’s what this creative block feels like—a reflection of how depleted I am. It’s not a lack of ideas—it’s the exhaustion of always having to figure it out.

Maybe underneath the fatigue is guilt. Guilt for not doing more. Guilt for needing rest. I’m starting to understand that feeling stuck is part of the process. Sometimes the pause is necessary. That silence can be a kind of healing, too. Maybe this block is a message: to stop, breathe, listen. Maybe it’s the beginning of something softer, slower, and more sustainable. Maybe it’s not about creating something new, but making space for what’s next—on its own time.

Maybe the next piece I make doesn’t have to be beautiful or profound. Maybe it just needs to be honest. Like my teaching and like my work, maybe the next step is giving myself permission to create without pressure—just like I ask my students to try, not perfect.