You know when you get so caught up in “adulting” (hate that word) BS like making money and getting a promotion—that you kinda forget about the things you love?

Not like friends or seeing movies, but those quiet nights at home where you think a lot and write weird stories about poisonous plants, haunted mail, and the moon.

Tell me if this sounds like you:

You used to write all the time. You’d fill notebooks in months (now it takes a lot longer). And if you looked, it might’ve been months since you’ve written at all. You haven’t spent any time on this thing you love, and you’re realizing how much you really miss it.

And not just for the way it helps you reflect on the past, but also just because you feel your creative muscles getting stale.

You start wondering/worrying: is this what it will be like? Writing less often and less frequently til you just stop altogether?

What a fucking shame it is whenever anyone puts their creativity away to grow up and be responsible.

Good news though. Life isn’t linear like that. And you can be an adult and still make time for your passions. You can always retrain those creativity muscles.

And, when you need a gentle nudge or a kick in the butt, I’m here. 

Insta-satisfaction