Writing not smoking

I think the only downside I’ve noticed in sobriety is a dip in my creative output.

But then I remember how many years I spent sitting on “brilliant ideas” that never saw daylight because I was too stoned to follow through. Too foggy. Too bored. Too convinced that thinking about creating was the same as creating.

So maybe this isn’t a creativity drought at all. Maybe it’s a familiar addiction trick – perfectionism in disguise. The belief that if I can’t be exceptional, I’m useless. That if I can’t be my own narcissistic ideal of perfect, then what’s the point? Might as well pick up again.

Here’s what actually happened since I sobered up in September 2025:

• I sofa-hopped for a month straight through nausea and exhaustion, hustling to build a safety net for me and my baby.
• I faced sobriety and life with my complicated parents at the same time.
• I made peace with the fact that some things happened to me that weren’t fair – and may never be forgivable.
• I started two blogs: this one, and another under my public name – not because I felt “ready,” but because I chose effort over hiding.
• I got accepted into an art course that reconnects me to printmaking and drawing – passions I lost to addiction in my first year of art school before dropping out.
• I began seeing my body as a work of art, not a broken object to be used, abused, or ashamed of.
• I made new friends out of no friends. I reconnected with old ones through long WhatsApp voice notes.
• I laid the groundwork for a more honest and boundary-filled relationship with my parents after years of erosion.
• I returned to pole, aerials, yoga, and running in my second trimester – despite anaemia, muscle loss, depression, and the kind of fatigue that humbles you.
• I built a daily habit of checking in – with my sponsor, and with myself – on paper.
• I took an honest inventory of my capacity, strengths, and limits, and set intentions that actually account for pregnancy, hormones, a career pivot, and early motherhood.

That doesn’t look like creative failure to me.

It looks like creation on a different scale. Slower. Quieter. Rooted.

So maybe I’m not at the finish line.

Maybe I’m not blocked or broken or behind.

Maybe I’m only just getting started.