In Defense of Whimsy

I've been thinking a lot about whimsy lately.

Not the frivolous kind that gets dismissed as childish or impractical—but the kind that keeps our creative spirits alive. The kind that makes us stop mid-step to notice the light catching on a bird's wing, or pick up a paintbrush even when the dishes aren't done, or rearrange a shelf just because something needs to be beautiful.

Whimsy is what keeps us curious. What keeps us playing. What reminds us that life is meant to be savored, not just survived.

And I think the world needs more of it right now. I think we need more of it.

"Whimsy isn't the cherry on top of a well-lived life—it's the very thing that makes life worth living"

The case for whimsy.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that whimsy is optional. A luxury. Something to indulge in only after everything else is checked off the list—which, of course, means never.

We learned that practical matters most. That productivity is the measure of a day well-lived. That surrounding ourselves with beauty or taking time to create is somehow selfish when there are emails to answer and responsibilities to tend to.

But what if we've gotten it backward?

What if whimsy isn't the cherry on top of a well-lived life, but the very thing that makes life worth living? What if choosing wonder over worry, curiosity over criticism, and delight over the endless to-do list isn't frivolous at all—but essential?

Where whimsy lives.

Whimsy lives in the things we create.

It's there when we let go of perfection and paint something wonderfully wonky. When we show up to our easels not to make a masterpiece, but to see what happens when we play with color. When we make marks just because it feels good to move a brush across paper.

It's the part of us that says, "I wonder what would happen if..." instead of "I should probably..."

Whimsy lives in how we spend our days.

It's the decision to take the long way home because the light looks beautiful. To put on music and dance in the kitchen. To stop what we're doing and really look at something—a tree, a cloud, the way paint pools on a palette—just because it's lovely.

It's choosing presence over productivity, even for just a moment.

And whimsy lives in what we surround ourselves with.

The objects we keep close matter more than we think. They're not just decoration—they're daily reminders of what we value, what delights us, what keeps our creative spirits fed.

A small painting that makes you smile every time you pass it. A splash of color on the wall that lifts your mood. Objects made by human hands that carry the imperfect, irreplaceable quality of something made with care.

These things aren't frivolous. They're anchors. They keep us tethered to the parts of ourselves that know how to wonder.

The cost of losing whimsy.

When we push whimsy aside, something in us dims.

We become efficient but exhausted. Productive but depleted. We check the boxes, but we forget why we're here.

I see it in my workshops sometimes—people who arrive carrying so much weight, who've forgotten what it feels like to play. And then, slowly, as the paint starts to move and the conversation flows and nobody's grading anyone's work, something shifts. The shoulders drop. The laughter comes easier. That spark—that essential, creative, wonder-filled spark—flickers back to life.

That's what whimsy does. It reminds us we're still here. Still capable of delight. Still allowed to find joy in small, impractical, beautiful things.

Choosing whimsy.

Here's what I've learned: Whimsy is a practice, not a personality trait.

It's not something you either have or don't have. It's something you choose, again and again, in small ways throughout your day.

You choose it when you take five minutes to sketch something instead of scrolling. When you wear the color that makes you happy instead of what's practical. When you buy the handmade thing that costs a little more but makes your heart sing, instead of the mass-produced version that's just fine.

You choose it when you sign up for the class, even though you're busy. When you hang the art, even though the wall isn't perfect. When you give yourself permission to create something, even if no one ever sees it.

You choose it when you decide that feeding your creative spirit isn't selfish—it's survival.

An invitation.

So here's my invitation to you, especially during this busy, often overwhelming season:

What if you chose whimsy? Not as an indulgence, but as a necessity.

What if you surrounded yourself with things that spark wonder instead of just filling space? What if you carved out time to create, not to produce anything specific, but just to remember what it feels like to play?

What if you gave yourself permission to delight in small things—a beautiful color, a wonky ornament, a morning spent painting with friends—not because you've earned it, but simply because you're alive and those things feed your soul?

The world doesn't need more of us running on empty, checking boxes, and pushing through. It needs more of us showing up fully alive—paint-stained, wonder-filled, and unapologetically delighted by the small, imperfect, beautiful things.

That's the kind of life I want to live. That's the kind of art I want to make. And that's the kind of world I want to help create—one small act of whimsy at a time.

May you find your whimsy today. May you protect it fiercely. May you let it lead you back to the creative, curious, wonder-filled person you've always been.

The world needs that version of you.

What does whimsy look like in your life? How do you keep your creative spirit fed during busy seasons? I'd love to hear in the comments below.