I thought I might feel back to normal by now.
After returning from Tennessee and writing through my grief, I expected that being home would somehow mean being “back”—back to my studio, back to routine, back to creating. But I’m realizing something important: I’m still tired. And that’s okay.
My studio is still in the same state as when I left. I haven’t been able to organize or revisit the projects I had waiting for me. Instead, I’ve been sitting with this longing—this deep ache for my family and the roots that ground me. That connection is so strong, and right now, the absence of it feels equally strong.
The first few weeks of June felt like a haze. Like I was walking through a dream—sometimes outside myself, sometimes overwhelmed by the reality of what had changed. I’m grateful I got to say goodbye to my uncle, but the moment I stepped into the funeral home, I felt the finality of it in my bones. I let out a guttural sob I couldn’t control. Someone who had been a steady force in my life was suddenly, physically gone. And in that moment, I felt it fully.
But as I looked around at his daughters—my cousins—and his grandchildren, I also felt something else. I felt his presence. I felt my mother’s presence. I felt my Nana. Grief opened a space, and in it, I felt how love continues.
Lately, I’ve felt a strange pressure to bounce back. Maybe it’s the way social media moves fast, or the way my own anxiety tells me I’m falling behind. But when I check in with myself, I know that rushing would only push me further away from the kind of art I want to make.
So I’m reminding myself—again—that my creative path is not linear. That tending to my body, my home, my daughter, and my inner world is part of the process. That stepping slowly doesn’t mean I’ve lost momentum—it means I’m moving with care.
If you’ve been tired lately, if you’re craving rest or slowness or quiet: this is your permission too. You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to justify it. Just let yourself be. That’s enough.
