The Slow Return: Creativity, Vulnerability, and the Fight to Be Seen

The slow return of to who I am has taken years.  I’m not new to writing. In fact, I’m not new to speaking, teaching, or sharing spiritual wisdom. But there’s a big difference between sharing what I know and sharing who I am.

That’s what writing—true, vulnerable writing—demands of me. I’d be lying if I said I’m comfortable with it. The truth? It terrifies me.

Authentic Writing is Hard

It’s easy for people to say, “Just be authentic!” But what if your authentic self is still healing? Still guarded? Still unsure of whether it’s safe to be seen? Or worse yet, you think you are something for so long and discover it isn’t you at all?

I’m the oldest child. The only daughter. The oldest daughter of an only daughter of an only daughter. Generations of care-taking and perfectionism are woven into my DNA. There was no room for error when I was young. If things weren’t perfect—according to someone else’s definition—I paid the price. Add to that I am a triple Capricorn—if my DNA didn’t give it away, my star chart does.

So I became the one who got things done—the list maker, the dependable one, the caretaker. My creative self? She got pushed aside in service to survival. I became someone that was dependable, and the most creative thing I did was juggle conflicting items on a schedule to ensure everyone else got what they needed.  My needs, desires and hopes never figured into the equation.

Perhaps You Can Relate

And yet—she never gave up. She finds her way back to me, sometimes through words, photographs I take, and other times through yarn. I escape into crochet lately. The rhythm of counting stitches paired with a mindless TV show gives me just enough space to breathe. It’s not just a hobby. It’s a lifeline.  I didn’t recognize it at first, but there’s something sacred in that repetition.

There, in the loops and turns of a shawl or hat, I allow for imperfection. An old Irish tradition says to leave one mistake in your needlework so a fairy doesn’t get trapped. There’s something freeing about that—a quiet act of grace I offer myself. But when I turn to writing, that grace slips through my fingers. The softness I grant my stitches doesn’t always find its way into my sentences.

With writing, the stakes feel higher. My crocheted gifts go to people who will love them because I made them. But writing? Writing reaches strangers. It might hurt someone without meaning to. And that thought alone sometimes keeps me silent.

The Power of Words and Vulnerability

There’s power in what I say. I know that. And that power terrifies me—not because I don’t trust my intentions, but because I know how power can be misused. I’ve been on the receiving end of words wielded like weapons, used to wound, manipulate, or control. That kind of harm leaves a mark. And deep down, I fear I could unknowingly cause the same. So I hold back, caught between the urge to speak and the fear of becoming what I’ve worked so hard to heal from.

But lately, I’m tired of holding back.

The Power of Three Words

My three words for 2025 are align, community, and hope. They’re taped to my computer screen. Every time I write, I ask myself if what I’m creating speaks to at least one of those words. Bonus points when it speaks to all three.

Writing politically has helped me feel powerful. Writing spiritually grounds me in my truth. But when I allow those two currents to merge—when I dare to speak of spiritual values in a world that feels like it has lost its moral compass—a fire lights inside me. It’s a fire I’ve only recently had the courage to acknowledge, let alone share. That intersection feels like both risk and responsibility. It asks me to speak not just from knowledge, but from conviction. It demands more of me, but it also connects me to something deeper, something vital.

A Slow Return

This has been a slow return to myself. And it’s ongoing.

It’s not always graceful. There are days I type and delete the same paragraph ten times. There are mornings I sit at the keyboard and feel nothing but fog. And there are nights when I write something raw, something real, and then close the file without saving it—because I’m not ready to face it yet, let alone share it.

There are days when I don’t share what I’ve written. The vulnerability still scares me. But I’m pushing through, because when I do share, people respond. They tell me something shifted for them—that something I said made them feel seen, less alone, more understood. And in those moments, I’m reminded why I keep showing up.

And maybe that’s the whole point.

Maybe being seen—truly seen—is what gives others permission to show up, to align with their truth, to find community, and to choose hope.

I’d love to hear from you. What does vulnerability in your own creative process look like? How has sharing your voice—or holding back—shaped your journey? Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments below. Together, we can create a space where we’re not just seen, but truly heard.