There are days when words don’t arrive. They hover around just out of reach, like dust caught in sunlight—visible but untouchable. I sit with the stillness, my fingers resting on the keyboard, hoping the rhythm will return. But it doesn’t—and that’s when I know I’ve hit a creative block.
A few days ago, I felt it sharply. That uneasy weight of having nothing to give. No ideas, no spark. Just a strange quietness inside me. I didn’t work on my blog. I didn’t brainstorm or schedule or even try to “make the most it.”
Instead, I stayed in. I napped. Ordered takeaway and let Netflix autoplay its way through the afternoon.
It didn’t feel romantic or restful at the time—it felt like avoidance. But now, looking back, maybe it was exactly what I needed.
I am Learning to Trust the Pause
Creative blocks used to feel like a failure to me. But I am learning to accept it as it comes.
They tend to show up when I’ve been doing things too fast without pause, when life has quietly filled every corner of my brain. The block becomes a soft rebellion—an invitation to be still, even when I don’t want to be.
I’m learning to trust the pause, even when it comes wrapped in discomfort.
It can feel like a strange betrayal when creativity fades, like I’ve somehow lost touch with myself and the idea that makes me keep going in the first place. But I’m slowly realising that it’s often these pauses that nurture the most significant breakthroughs. Without rest, the mind doesn’t have the space to renew itself. Without stillness, there’s no way to process everything that’s been happening. Sometimes, a break is exactly what the creative process needs and I constantly need this as a reminder.
Just like a garden, the seeds we plant don’t grow overnight. They need time to settle in the soil, to root and grow, to eventually break through and blossom. So why would we expect inspiration to bloom on command? It takes time, attention, and—most of all—patience.
When the Lack of Inspirations Feels Heavy
I’ll be honest—when I’m uninspired, I often feel low. I carry this quiet guilt that I should be doing more, making something, proving (to no one in particular) that I’m still creative. It’s a strange ache that builds in the background.
When this happens, I tend to get caught in my head. I overthink and then I spiral—convinced that the lack for inspiration means I’ve hit a wall that can’t be crossed. I then worry being unable to create again, and when I’m pressured, I get stuck in a cycle of frustration and self-doubt.
But I’m trying to remind myself—over and over again—that this lull is not a flaw in the process. It is the process. Creativity doesn’t disappear when it slows down. It’s still there, just quieter.
Some days, the reminder sinks in. Other days, I need to hear it again. And again.
There’s a common narrative that creative people must always be producing, always be in motion. The expectation is that we should constantly be pushing forward, creating something new. But this isn’t sustainable. Even the most prolific artists, writers, and creators experience moments of stillness. We are told that these moments are to be feared or avoided, but I’m beginning to see them as necessary pauses in the rhythm of creation.
Without these moments of rest, the art we create might feel forced, uninspired, or lacking depth. It’s like when you are working to meet a deadline in your regular 9-5 where you just wanted to get things out of the way—regardless of how it turns out. The stillness is just as much a part of the creative process as the bursts of inspiration. It’s part of how we grow and evolve.
The Space Between Ideas
We often speak about the highs of inspirations, but not enough about the quiet down low of a creative block. The foggy space between one idea and the next.
It’s tempting to fill that space—scroll, plan, push—but perhaps the most honest thing I can do is let it be. Just sit with it. Let the creative tide go out for a while, knowing it always returns. Trust that it will return.
Somewhere in the blankness, something is forming. I don’t need to force it into shape.
Creativity isn’t just about what happens in the moments of active production; it’s also about what happens when we step away and let ideas marinate. The mind is always working, even when it seems like nothing is happening. I’ve started to trust that in those in-between moments, something is being processed beneath the surface.
It’s easy to get anxious in these spaces. I am learning that we don’t have to fill every gap with action. Sometimes, simply being present and allowing the quiet to settle is where the magic happens.
Small Things That Sometimes Help
When I’m in a creative block, I don’t always know what to do with myself. But on the days I don’t feel like forcing anything, I’ve started to let myself lean into soften rhythms—ones that ask less of me and offer more space to just be.
Below are the things that sometimes help me when I’m in my pause mode:
- Make a cup of tea and sit with it—no multitasking
- Watch my favourite TV series or film—something comforting, no pressure to learn or grow
- Let myself do nothing without guilt
- Listen to my body and mind (if I need a nap, I will let it have it)
- Let my mind wander
- Not forcing myself to be inspired in the moment that I’m not
There’s no formula to make inspiration come back when you hit a creative block, but giving myself this kind of space helped me feel less stuck—and more at peace with the quiet in between.
These small actions have become some of the most grounding practices in my routine. In the past, I might have felt guilty for doing “nothing,” but now I am adapting to the idea that resting is often the precursor to creation. The mind needs moments of leisure to replenish itself, to restitch all the fragments of inspiration that have yet to come together.
It’s also important to embrace the comfort of routine. For me, making a cup of tea isn’t just about the drink—it’s about the pause. It’s a gentle reminder that not every moment needs to be productive.
I’m Learning That Creative Block is Part of the Process
Creative blocks are not the end of the story. They are part of it. A breath between sentences. A blank page before the next paragraph.
They remind me that inspiration isn’t a faucet I can turn on at will. It’s something that returns when I stop chasing it and simply wait gently, in the quiet.
And eventually, it does return. Not because I earned it—but because I gave it room.
The next idea will arrive when it’s ready. And in the meantime, I will trust in the space between.
