There are moments when creating doesn’t feel like effort. It feels like exhaling.
Not striving, not controlling. Just allowing.

I’ve been thinking about creativity not as an act of doing, but as an act of surrender. Like a child disappearing into a game. Like the ink that spills onto the page before thought can catch it. That kind of presence—the kind that doesn’t try to manage what comes, only invites it.

When I was younger, writing would take me over. My cheeks would flush. The classroom would vanish. I wasn’t the writer. I was the writing. I didn’t know it then, but that was surrender. That was what it meant to be with the process, not just directing it.

As adults, we’re trained to push, to plan, to produce. But creativity resists force. It asks for stillness. Trust. Even love. Not the pretty, effortless kind. The messy, full-hearted, patient love that stays and listens.

Discipline doesn’t mean tightening up—it means showing up gently. Making space. Letting yourself be moved.

When I remember that, I write better. I feel better. I live better.

So I’m learning to surrender. Again and again.
To be the page. The breath. The open hand.