When Life Gets Crazy, Pick Up a Brush

On the radical act of playing with paint when the world won't slow down

You know those seasons in life when everything seems to hit at once? The phone calls that rearrange your whole day. The medical appointments stacked on top of each other. The grief that sits quietly in the background of every ordinary moment — while you're making coffee, while you're answering emails, while you're pretending, for everyone's sake, that things are fine.

We all move through those seasons. And lately, I've been deep in one.

Someone I love dearly — a woman who has been a steady, warm presence in my life for years — was nearing the end of her journey. My mother-in-law. Watching someone you love move through that passage is one of the most profound, tender, and heart-wrenching things a person can experience. There are no words big enough for it. There is no to-do list that helps. There is only being present, holding on, and somehow also still showing up for the rest of your life in between.

And so I painted tulips.

Not because it solved anything. Not because it was deep or meaningful or destined for a gallery wall. But because for forty-five minutes, the only thing that existed was the red of a tulip petal and the drag of a loaded brush across a sketchbook page.

Why the sketchbook changes everything

I want to talk about the humble sketchbook for a moment, because I think it's one of the most underrated tools in a creative person's life — and I don't mean that in a technical sense. I mean it in a soul sense.

When you work in a sketchbook, something shifts. There's no canvas to ruin. There's no expensive paper to stress about. There's no finished piece waiting to be judged, framed, sold, or shared. It's just you and paint and the beautiful, forgiving blank page. The stakes are zero. And when the stakes are zero, something in your nervous system finally exhales.

I opened my sketchbook with a reference photo of tulips on my tablet and I just went for it. No pencil sketch. No careful planning. I picked up the paint and I started. Loose strokes. Bold marks. Yellow flicking out from under a brush that wasn't even loaded with yellow — it just happened. The background became a moody swirl of purple and blue without me deciding it would. The stems dripped white in long, gestural lines that felt more alive than anything carefully measured could ever be.

It was messy. It was loose. It was completely spontaneous.

And it was exactly what I needed.

Play is not a luxury. It's a lifeline.

We talk about self-care like it's a checklist — get enough sleep, drink water, go for a walk. And yes, all of those things matter. But I think we undersell the power of play. Real play. Messy, purposeless, childlike, joyful play.

When life gets heavy, our instinct is often to push through. To be productive. To be useful. To hold it together. But the mind and heart need somewhere to go that isn't heavy. They need somewhere that is just... fun. Bright. Free.

That's what the sketchbook gave me that afternoon. It gave me permission to not be in my grief for a little while. To not be in the worry, the anticipation, the tenderness of watching someone you love wind down toward goodbye. For forty-five minutes I was just an artist playing with paint and tulips, and that was enough. More than enough.

There is real science behind this, of course — the way creative flow states lower cortisol, the way making something with your hands anchors you to the present moment. But honestly? You don't need the science. You just need a sketchbook and ten minutes and the willingness to make something that doesn't have to be anything.

A gentle invitation

If you're in a heavy season right now — and so many of us are, in one way or another — I want to gently ask you: when did you last play?

Not create with intention. Not work toward a finished piece. Not practice a technique. Just play. Mess around. Follow the paint. Let the brush go wherever it wants and see what happens.

Working in a sketchbook takes all the pressure off. There's nothing serious on the line, and that's exactly the point. It's one of the best ways I know to shake off the rust, reconnect with the joy of making art, and lose yourself in something fun — even if just for a little while. Life gets crazy, and sometimes the best thing you can do is pick up a brush and just play.

The tulips will be there. The paint will be there. And for a little while, the heaviness can wait.

With love and a paintbrush,

♥