Happy new year! And if you’re new here, welcome. You don’t have to call yourself an artist or sign up for The Artist’s Way or even believe you are a creative person to be part of this community.

Maybe you grew up like I did, learning how to disappear, and you’re more comfortable just standing back and watching, rather than engaging. I honor that.

Maybe you learned how to read moods, anticipate needs, and stay just quiet, so you could be safe.

Maybe you grew up unattended, and never learned the names of birds or their songs, even though they might have been the most consistent and loving presence in your childhood.

Maybe you learned how to ignore your needs and to avoid wanting anything, except to survive, or to escape.

Everything I write now, about creativity, attention, wildness, art, all of it began in my childhood, where pleasure was suspicious, beauty was a distraction, and intimacy of any kind was forbidden, where anything that could pull us away from the group, or away from obedience to our leader, or away from fear of eternal damnation, was considered dangerous.

Imagine my surprise when, years after leaving the cult who raised me, I found myself standing barefoot in a canyon, boots abandoned in the dust, watching a red-tailed hawk circle overhead like it was trying to tell me something.

Maybe it was.

Maybe it still is.

There’s a particular kind of quiet that comes over you when you start paying attention to the living world. You stop trying to be efficient, you stop performing usefulness, and you get still, curious, and attuned. You begin to hear the difference between a mourning dove’s ache and a mockingbird’s bravado.

Though the magic isn’t really in the birds.

It’s who you become when you make space for them.

When you’ve been trained to vanish, the intimacy of art doesn’t come easily. It’s not easy to let yourself be touched by the world, to let the breeze lift your hair, to let a crow’s call land in your chest, or a woodpecker’s knock interrupt your thoughts, at least, not at first.

For a long time, I skimmed across my days armored and capable, while the earth kept offering itself anyway. It took time for me to learn to pay attention.

Attention is an act of love.

In Irish mythology, there is an old crone goddess who shaped mountains and guarded wild places. The Cailleach isn’t gentle. She is devoted, fierce and protective, and she loves the land enough to defend it.

I think about her often, as I become more wild, and as I watch others around me quietly refuse the roles we were handed: the good girl, the helper, the one who keeps things smooth. I see a rebellion rising, a return to something untamed and sovereign.

A year ago, I left a decades-long career in academia to re-wild my life and work full-time as a writer. People will tell you it’s hard to make a living as an artist, and that’s true, but no one tells you how frightening it is to let yourself be seen, especially if you were raised to disappear.

If you grew up inside chaos, control, or neglect, you likely learned early that visibility brought danger, that wanting too much made you a problem and that asking for attention invited punishment.

Creativity, for people like us, isn’t a hobby. It’s defiance. Sharing what you create makes you visible, and visibility can be terrifying.

But, the part that watched and waited, the part that listened, the part that kept humming under her breath when silence was demanded, that part still believes in beauty.

So, you create, without waiting to feel brave. You write, with fear in your throat. You let yourself be seen, even when you don’t feel worthy of holding court.

Because you’re not here to be ornamental or polite or careful. You’re here to take up space, and to become who you most long to be.

I’m writing this to you because maybe you were trained to disappear too. Maybe your longing scares you. Maybe your voice feels fragile and enormous at the same time.

Good.

That means it matters.

Make the thing. Do the thing. Say the thing.

Not because it’s safe.

Because it’s time.

Today is the last day to join our 2026 Artist’s Way cohort. If something in this essay feels familiar, if you recognize that ache between hiding and wanting, there’s a place to explore that gently, and in good company. You can respond to this email to join, or read below to learn what our new cohort has begun practicing together this week.

And if you loved the story of Wicked, or the film Wicked for Good, here’s a link for gourmet chocolate with gorgeous designs around the film, as well as options for Valentine’s Day.