Keeping What Matters

For a long time, I thought I needed to decide what this space was for before I could settle into it. I tried making things for sale, tried shaping my attention around output, tried to move faster than my life would comfortably allow. Some of it worked briefly. Much of it didn’t stay.

What has stayed is the making itself — sewing, cooking, gardening, knitting, writing — returned to in the margins of long days, not as escape but as orientation. These practices have always helped me find my way back to myself, even when time was limited and attention uneven.

What’s changed lately is not the impulse to make, but what I ask of it. I no longer need this space to become something in particular, or to justify the time I give it. Making still carries hope — a sense that something different might be possible — but with less expectation that it needs to arrive fully formed, or for sale.

So I’m letting this be a place that holds what I return to, without trying to organise it too tightly or explain it away. Creative practice shaped by lived experience rather than ambition. And I’m trusting that this is enough.