I have been trying to dive into my creativity. I need it – it’s an anti-depressant for me. When I get into it I can lose myself, lose time.

I want to say that I was very creative as a kid – I remember trips to Wallack’s, painting, sketching, lots of writing – but at some point I just stopped.

I know that non-fiction became more of a struggle after I went to journalism school and was taught a different way of writing. (The same way that the sports I loved have been different since I covered them as a reporter).

Somewhere along the way I got stuck in the “I’ll never be good enough, so why try” loop.

What I’ve spent the past year or so figuring out is that I try because practice helps me get better, and seeing my improvement makes me feel better – but also because there’s joy in just doing. Simple joy.

Last year I allowed myself to spend some time and money on art classes and supplies. I re-arranged my office so I have one desk for work and one that’s for art, so I don’t have to clean everything up or move everything out of the way.

Earlier this year I came to the realization that my drawings don’t have to be perfect or exact – they are for me, and for the practice itself.

Whether it’s revisiting a book my grandfather had

Or knitting a tiny snowman

Or painting a llama who looks like she has a score to settle

I’ve also jumped into the #MakeDontBreak challenge to try and ensure that I do a little bit every day.

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