Grief, creativity, and the spaces in between

Navigating grief while staying connected to creativity can feel like an insurmountable challenge.

Grief touches everyone, but its impact on our lives — and on our creative energy — is deeply personal.

After the death of a dear friend, I was facing into my own sense of low creativity.

I saw it show up as sporadic output, shorter and simpler podcast episodes, and even the unprecedented act of discarding an entire episode because it simply didn’t feel right.

A lived illustration of how difficult it can be to harness creativity in the midst of grief.

When I shared how hard it was to create, my wise husband suggested I talk about the struggle itself.

That simple prompt revealed something important: acknowledging and sharing the experience of having nothing to say can be a creative act in itself.

Naming the block becomes a form of expression. Silence, when spoken honestly, turns into something alive.

For me, the idea of “grief recovery” has always felt slightly uncomfortable. It suggests a return to a pre-grief state — and I’m not sure that’s possible, or even desirable.

What feels truer is learning how to make space for grief. To allow it to sit alongside other emotions. To honour both the loss and the love that came before it.

Grief takes many forms — the loss of a loved one, a job, a home, a phase of life — and each asks something different of us.

At times of intense grief, it can feel as though creativity has simply vanished. The energy just isn’t there.

And yet, even when creativity feels out of reach, small acts of expression can still offer something vital. Writing a few words. Making a mark. Letting sound move through the body. Not to produce anything finished or polished — just to allow something to flow.

I think of this as transitional work.

Creative acts without outcome. Without pressure. Without expectation.

This kind of making asks for patience and self-compassion. It allows creativity to change shape, rather than disappear.

Creativity doesn’t only live in what we usually label as creative arts.

It shows up in cooking, gardening, caring, arranging, styling, shaping, moving, making. These acts reconnect us with a sense of agency — a quiet reminder that we are still here, still able to respond to life.

There’s a Chinese proverb that has stayed with me. It’s beautifully poetic and brutally practical.

You cannot prevent the birds of sorrow from flying overhead, but you can prevent them from building nests in your hair.

For me, creativity becomes one way of letting sorrow move through without taking root.

There are no rules for creating in times of grief. No timelines. No expectations.

Whether through journaling, art, or simply speaking honestly about what is present, each small act helps us integrate what we are carrying — and gently find our way back to ourselves.

→ Sometimes moving a pen across paper, without a fixed outcome, can help us open up by slow degrees.