The Pressure Is the Problem

And the spell we’re here to break.

Hey, it’s been a minute since I’ve written anything here. I’ve been riding a few creative waves and letting some things sit. You know how it goes—there’s a time for speaking, and a time for listening. I’ve been in the listening.

But lately, one voice keeps shouting above the rest.

The pressure.

Not the world’s pressure. Ours. The pressure we carry inside. The shoulds, the timelines, the perfectionism. The anxious hum that starts up the minute we sit down to make something and suddenly think we need to know what we’re doing.

I saw it come up again recently at one of my in-person doll workshops.

Before anyone had even touched a scrap of fabric, there was this wave of confession:

“I’m not sure I even feel creative anymore.”
“What if I don’t like what I make?”
“Everything takes me so long…I never finish.”

These are wise, beautiful women. Women with full lives and stories. And still—this damn pressure. This chronic inner tension that says we have to get it right. That whatever we make has to be beautiful, impressive, share-worthy.

We’ve been trained to believe our value lies in what we produce. And now that we’re here—in our 50s, 60s, beyond—we're beginning to feel how wrong that is.

The art table doesn’t lie. That pressure shows up the minute our hands get quiet and our minds get loud.

And if we listen closely, we’ll hear it whispering all the rules we’ve followed for decades:

Be good. Be fast. Be clear. Be done. Be liked.

But here’s the rub: menopause changes the terms of engagement.

This is a wild, holy portal that drags us out of the old game. And it brings us face to face with everything we never gave ourselves permission to feel, want, or do.

This isn’t just a hormonal transition. It’s a soul recalibration. And it has no use for perfection.

It wants your mess. Your slowness. Your not-sure-yet. Your “this is ugly but it’s mine.”

What if not finishing is actually sacred?
What if making something you don’t love is part of the map back to what you do?

What if menopause is the release valve—not just for heat, but for every internalized standard you’ve been quietly suffocating under?

Because here’s the thing: when we give ourselves permission to make something imperfect, to follow the thread of curiosity, to not know where it’s going, we reclaim more than just creativity.

We reclaim sovereignty.

I keep thinking about this moment, quiet hands, quiet room, something beginning to take shape...

I share a not-so-secret secret with the women who take my classes and join my groups. What we’re doing isn’t just about making dolls or bits of collage or whatever kind of play we step into.

It’s about making contact.

With your hands.
With your desire.
With the part of you that still remembers how to play, wander, and want something just because it’s yours.

So if the pressure’s been hounding you lately, I want to offer this:

Let it unravel. Let it speak, sure—but don’t let it steer.

Make the weird thing.
Start and don’t finish.
Sit in the not-knowing and see what shows up.

This is your apprenticeship with the unknown.
And that’s where all real art—and real becoming—begins.

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