Last week, we talked about dance as movement of the soul. Needless to say, that definitely took me out of my comfort zone. This week is similar yet, different, as we talk about art. Let’s get one thing straight—I’ve never seen myself as an “artistic” person. If you’d asked me to list the creatives in my family, I would have started (and maybe ended) with my late older brother. He was naturally creative—an actor who could pull you into a story with a look, an artist who sketched on napkins between auditions, a photographer who found angles I’d walked past a hundred times, even a singer who could still a room. In my mind, he was the creative one. Not me.

When I was a kid and we did art projects in class or in Girl Scouts, my body gave me away: shoulders tight, breath shallow, a quick scan for the “right” answer. I knew how to draw exactly two things—a horse, and a field of flowers with a sun in the corner. (If we ever drew together, I’d probably give you that same horse and that same field.) Even later, as a therapist, when I’d draw next to my child clients, I’d default to the familiar: the horse, the sun, the flowers. The comfort wasn’t in “making art.” It was in doing something I couldn’t do wrong.

That’s part of why, when a conference presenter announces a “self-care art activity,” my inner teenager still cringes. Give me reflection prompts, a breath practice, a walk outside—yes please. But glue sticks and watercolor palettes? My nervous system braces.

And yet—if I’m honest—I’ve shut the door on creativity for a long time by defining it too narrowly. Creativity isn’t just drawing or painting well. There are so many ways to make, arrange, remix, and express that don’t require talent or technique. This blog is proof: writing week after week is creative. So is building a playlist, plating dinner with a bit more color, snapping a photo of the way morning light lands on the kitchen table, or arranging three stems in a mason jar because they make the room feel more like you. I’ve only just started scratching the surface of what creativity means to me. And every time I allow myself to create —without grades, without a gallery—the tense place in my chest loosens a little.

This week, I want to explore art and creativity as gentle tools for emotional regulation. Not performance. Not perfection. Just small, repeatable ways to move feelings through instead of letting them calcify. If you, too, tense up at the phrase “art project,” consider this your invitation to color outside the lines—on purpose.

Creativity, Without the Capital C

For a long time, I confused creativity with artistic skill. Skill matters if your goal is mastery. But if your goal is regulation—to feel steadier, present, and connected—then creativity is mostly about permission and play. It’s about recruiting your senses, a little curiosity, and a small dose of novelty so your nervous system can shift states.

Think about the micro-creativity you already practice:

• The way you choose a mug in the morning because its weight in your hand feels right.
• The way you hum while you tidy.
• The way you rearrange a shelf because something in you wants order or space or a pop of blue.

None of that belongs in a museum. All of it counts.

When we create, even in tiny ways, we:

1. Orient to the here-and-now. Hands in clay, eyes on color, ears tuned to a song—your attention returns to this moment.
2. Externalize what’s inside. A feeling or thought becomes a mark, a shape, a gesture. That “movement outward” often reduces pressure inward.
3. Reclaim choice. You pick the brush, the color, the stamp, the order of photos in a collage. Choice is regulation.
4. Complete a small cycle. Beginning–middle–end is soothing; it signals to the body, we can finish something.

If “I’m not creative” pops up, answer it kindly: I’m not performing. I’m regulating. Different job. Different metrics.

A Wider Palette: Creative Practices That Don’t Require “Art Skills”

Let’s blow the doors off what “counts” as art:

• Color-blocking a page: Use three highlighters or markers. Fill a page with rectangles until it’s full. That’s it. (It’s a visual breathing exercise.)
• Tear-collage: Rip shapes from magazines or old mail. Glue them into a quick composition. No scissors, no straight edges—your hands will find rhythms.
• Nature arranging: Gather leaves, stones, twigs on a walk. Make a mandala on your porch or a windowsill vignette. Photograph, then release.
• Blackout poetry: Take a page from a newspaper. Circle words that land; blackout the rest. You’ve made a poem.
• Scribble then soothe: Scribble for 30 seconds. Then spend 90 seconds tracing one line with your finger, breathing slower on the exhale as you follow its path.
• Found-object stacking: Three books, a mug, a pinecone. Arrange, balance, adjust. (It’s Jenga for your mood.)
• Doodle borders: Draw a frame of repeating shapes around a journal page—dots, waves, boxes. It’s movement and containment in one.
• Photography with constraints: Ten photos of “red” on your block, or “circles” in your kitchen. Constraints sharpen attention.
• Playlist sculpting: Sequence five songs to shift your state: nervous → grounded → hopeful. The order is the art.
• Recipe remix: Add one herb, one texture, or one color to tonight’s meal. Plate it like you mean it.

None of these require talent. All of them invite sensory engagement, choice, and a clear beginning–end—three pillars of regulation.

When You’re Triggered: Creativity as an On-Ramp Back to Yourself

When we’re triggered, the body surges into protection: fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. Executive functions dim; words can feel far away. Art and creativity offer bottom-up routes that don’t demand perfect language or logic. Try these:

1. Color breathing (2 minutes):
   Pick a marker. Inhale as you draw a slow arc; exhale as you complete the curve. Start big, finish small. Switch colors after each exhale. Let your breath lead the line.
2. Safe-place postcard (3 minutes):
   Fold an index card. Inside, draw or list three sensory anchors from a place you feel safe (sound of ocean, smell of coffee, warmth of sun). Tuck it in your bag for later.
3. Tactile reset (1 minute):
   Keep a small lump of clay or putty at your desk. Squeeze on the inhale, soften on the exhale. Sculpt a pebble, a spiral, a tiny bowl. The point is touch.
4. Name–line–note (90 seconds):
   Name out loud one feeling. Draw a single line that matches it (jagged, loopy, heavy). Hum one note that fits, then a note that soothes.
5. Bilateral doodle (2 minutes):
   Pen in each hand. Mirror circles or waves from the center outward. Crossing midline can nudge your brain toward integration.
6. Five-photo re-orient (3 minutes):
   Grab your phone. Take five close-ups of textures in arm’s reach (sleeve knit, mug glaze, desk grain). Slowing down to see interrupts spirals.

None of these will make the world less complex. They can make you a little steadier inside it—enough to choose the next wise step.

“But I Tense Up at Art Time.” (Me too. Here’s how I soften.)

• Lower the stakes. Use cheap paper and a kid’s marker. The nicer the materials, the louder the perfectionist.
• Design your container. Set a timer (2–5 minutes). When it dings, you’re done. Completion is regulating.
• Start with repetition. Lines, dots, squares. Repetition quiets the evaluator and builds fluency.
• Make it collective (but safe). Collage with a friend in parallel, cameras off if you like. Share your process, not your product.
• Keep the archive optional. Create → photograph → recycle. The medicine is in the making, not in storing bins of paper you’ll worry someone will find.
• Pair with music. Put on one song that sets the pace. When the track ends, so does the practice.

Most importantly: choice. If your system says “nope,” switch mediums, shorten the time, or pause. Regulation can’t be coerced.

Grief, Memory, and Making

Writing this, I kept thinking of my brother. For a long time, my comparison to his talent blocked me from trying. But lately, making small things has become a way to be with him—not to replicate his gifts, but to touch the joy he lived in when he was fully engaged. There is tenderness here. Sometimes I draw the same old horse and feel a lump in my throat. Sometimes I make a lopsided collage and laugh out loud. Grief moves in color and shape, too.

If you’re missing someone, consider a memory-making ritual:

• Choose a color that feels like them; fill a page with shades of it.
• Make a tiny altar on a shelf—photo, object, a sprig of something green.
• Write their name in a dozen styles, slowly, like a meditation.

Let the act be the honoring. You don’t need to capture them. You need a way to say: I love you, and I’m here.

A Starter Kit for Non-Artists (who are absolutely still creative)

• Paper you won’t protect. A scratch pad, index cards, junk mail envelopes turned inside-out.
• Three tools: One marker, one pencil, one glue stick. (Add a magazine you won’t miss.)
• One box or tray. Keep it visible; friction kills practice.
• A tiny prompt list taped inside the lid: “Blocks,” “Tear & place,” “Five reds,” “One line fits my mood,” “Blackout a headline.”
• A boundary: Phone on airplane mode for the duration. (You can photograph your creation afterward if you like.)

The goal isn’t a beautiful sketchbook. The goal is a reachable ritual. If it takes more than 30 seconds to set up, simplify.

Micro-Prompts for the Week (pick one a day)

• Monday: One-minute mosaic. Tear eight shapes, glue them fast, call it done.
• Tuesday: Weather map. What’s the weather in you—sun, fog, winds? Draw a forecast in symbols.
• Wednesday: Gratitude grid. Nine boxes; fill each with a color or word you’re grateful for.
• Thursday: Threshold photo. Snap a picture of the moment the kettle steams or the door opens. One frame that says “transition.”
• Friday: Release. Scribble your stress. Rip the page into strips. Drop them in the recycling with a long exhale.
• Weekend: Table top still life. Arrange three objects you use daily. Sit with them for sixty seconds. Notice one new thing.

If you’re caring for kids or leading teams, these are group-friendly. Trauma-informed pro-tip: always offer opt-out and alternatives.

“I Don’t Have Time.”

I hear you. Try replacing a scroll with a scribble. Or, if that’s too much to counter the momentum of your scribble, use your phone to take three interesting pictures of objects in the room from where you are sitting right now. Or, replace two minutes of worry with two minutes of making. Do it while the coffee drips, while the Zoom room loads, while you’re parked before school pickup. Think of creativity not as an extra chore, but as a state-shift tool—one you can deploy quickly to soften edges and regain choice.

Join in by:

• Trying one 3-minute make each day (color blocks, tear-collage, single-line mood drawing all count).
• Sharing how it felt—what worked, what you’d tweak next time.
• Downloading the Calm Calendar for gentle accountability and weekly prompts.

What I’m Loving This Week

Sound: The hush-and-scratch of pen on paper and the soft shff of torn magazine edges—tiny proofs that something inside is moving outside.

Practice: A 3-minute “Make Start.” Set a timer, choose one: color blocks, tear-&-place, or a one-line mood drawing. Stop when it dings—even mid-stroke. Tomorrow’s start will be easier.

Tool: A small “Maker Tray” on my desk: cheap index cards, three markers, a glue stick, and one old magazine. Low stakes = low resistance = I actually use it.

Song: “Stacks” — Bon Iver. Spacious and steady; let it hold the room while you make something small and honest.

A Gentle Close

If the word “art” makes you flinch, start smaller. If you’re sure you’re not creative, try anyway—but call it making. Draw the horse and the sun-corner and the flowers if you want. Tape the page to your fridge like a private joke with your younger self. Creativity isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about becoming a little more yourself, with ink on your fingers or glue on your thumb or a photo in your camera roll that reminds you: I was here today. I felt something. I made something of it.

This week, when you feel agitation rising or numbness settling in, reach for a pen, a scrap of paper, a melody, a handful of leaves. Make something small. Notice what shifts. Choose the next kind thing.

You don’t need to be the creative one in the family. You only need to be a creative one in your own life.  And I promise—you already are.

Next week, we’ll bring some of these ideas together as we talk about creating rituals as a way to cultivate self-respect, so stay tuned.

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