When Time Slips Through Your Fingers
It’s 10:47 PM. The house is never truly quiet. I’d washed the last bowl, administered medications, swept the floor of hair and debris, wiped the countertops, sent encouraging texts and validation to friends, set the trash out, closed the blinds, put the birds to bed, locked the doors… Ladies, you know the routine.
I climb into bed, hubby eager for his head rub. Nine rescue dogs settle, three hopping up to pin my legs under the covers. We choose a show. I am uninterested. Following the plot takes too much effort. The TV continues its drone as hubby falls asleep, quicker than an exhausted child. The punctuated snort, snort, hmmm of his snore hits my last nerve. I can’t blame him. He works full-time and runs the rescue.
I am the default support—I didn’t choose this life, but I accept it despite my fantasies of an unencumbered creative life. I have unwittingly been domesticated. My creative soul is paying the price.
Let’s be real. Most of us don’t choose this. It sneaks up on us—the result of preprogramming, expectation, life in motion—bills that need to be paid, children and elderly that need care, friends and family that need help. And I wonder, “How many others are too exhausted to chase their creative dreams? How many voices and creations have we lost to the overwhelming buzz of must-do labors?”
I am—exhausted. Bone-deep, mind-numbing exhaustion.
But I’m still awake. Sort of. Awake enough not to sleep. Asleep enough not to be able to do much of anything. I reach for my phone, knowing I should reach for my notebook instead. But the notebook requires something from me that I simply don’t have anymore.
So, I scroll.
I watch other artists create. I see writers announcing book deals, painters unveiling new collections, photographers capturing moments of breathtaking beauty. And something inside me withers a little more.
Remember when that was you? The voice is always there, just beneath the surface. Remember when you had ideas burning so brightly? You’d wake at 5:00 AM abuzz with excitement to get the words down?
I do remember. I remember a woman whose prose sang in her head; words flowed on the page, stories, and worlds built with new ideas that could not be contained.
But that woman exists now in the margins of a life filled with caretaking—for animals who need constant attention, for a household that demands management, for clients who expect timely delivery, for the worry that I must make a living, for a recently departed mother whose lose ends still require attention, for grief that hides beneath actions because there are no free moments to attend to it.
Every time-management system I’ve tried has failed me. Every early morning writing session succumbs to an emergency with a rescue animal. Every weekend, the art project gets canceled because someone needs me. The creative self I once knew feels like a ghost haunting the edges of my existence, appearing just long enough to remind me of what I’ve lost before disappearing again under the weight of responsibility.
And the fear grows. If I don’t find time to create—real-time, uninterrupted time—will I ever make anything meaningful? Will I disappear entirely into this endless cycle of care? Will I look back on my life and see only what I gave to others, with nothing left that bears my creative signature?
Don’t get me wrong. I realize that care, in and of itself, is meaningful. Important. Necessary. It makes the world work. It nurtures new life and comforts dying life. And even if there is a fair and equitable answer to unpaid labor that we must address as a society, I would never give up the time I spent with my ailing mother, regardless of how it consumed me.
I also realize the paradox in all-consuming caregiving and attending to “life’s busyness” over self-expression. It’s a type of creative self-abandonment: Sacrificing one for the other. Two loves face off so fiercely that there is no win in sight. We’re left feeling it’s one or the other. If I give to myself, then I take from another. If I give to them, I am left without, and a bit of my creative soul dies.
A Different Way to See
It happened during an ordinary phone call. I was speaking with a long-time friend who was struggling with an issue and, as friends do, we were working through it together. I offered what felt like simple encouragement—just words that came naturally in conversation, nothing I had labored over or carefully crafted.
“That’s exactly what I needed to hear,” she said, her voice brightening. “I’m adding this to my collection of Mande-isms.”
“Your what?” I asked, genuinely confused.
“My Mande-isms,” she repeated. “I save all the wise and encouraging things you write to me in our emails. I keep them in a special folder so I can reread them when I need to hear those words again.”
I was shocked into silence. This was news to me—completely unexpected.
“They could be a book, you know,” she continued. “The things you write to me have gotten me through some really dark times.”
I sat there, phone pressed to my ear, trying to process what she was saying. I had no idea I had this impact. Heck, I didn’t even remember most of what I’d written! These were just emails between friends, words of comfort offered in passing, thoughts shared in the margins of a busy life. I hadn’t seen them as creative work. I hadn’t recognized them as expressions of my voice, my perspective, my art.
But to her, they were treasures—pieces of wisdom worth saving, worth returning to, worth collecting. To her, these casual offerings were valuable creations.
And just like that, something shifted. I began to see my life through a different lens. All those emails written late at night after the animals were settled. All those text messages sent between errands. All those conversations had while multitasking. They weren’t just communications—they were creations. They weren’t separate from my caretaking responsibilities—they were woven into the fabric of my daily life.
It wasn’t that I had stopped being creative. It was that I had stopped recognizing my creativity because it didn’t look like what I thought creativity should be. I had been so focused on what I couldn’t do—the novels unwritten, the paintings unmade—that I had failed to see what I was already doing.
What if creativity isn’t something we schedule? What if it’s not something we do separate from our lives, but rather how we live our lives? What if every interaction, every word of encouragement, every moment of connection could be approached as a creative act?
I realized then that I didn’t need to find time for creativity. I needed to find creativity in time already claimed.
I had failed to see what I was already doing. And yet, wasn’t this always how women had created? Not in the grand studios or uninterrupted days I had imagined, but in the stolen moments, the margins of responsibility, the spaces between caregiving and survival? Maybe I had been looking in the wrong places for proof that my creativity was alive. Maybe it had never left me at all—it had simply adapted, as it always had for women before me.
The Creative Lives of Historical Caretakers
I’m not the first woman to face this challenge. Throughout history, women have found ways to weave creativity into lives consumed by responsibility.
Consider Emily Dickinson, whose nearly 1,800 poems were often written on scraps of paper or even envelopes while she managed her father’s household. Her poetry wasn’t composed in grand, uninterrupted stretches of time in a dedicated writing room. It emerged in moments stolen between domestic duties. She wrote on whatever was at hand—recipe cards, the backs of letters, small pieces of stationery. Her poems weren’t just personal musings; they were deep connections to the world around her, often sent as letters to friends and family. Her creativity wasn’t separate from her life—it was how she processed her life.
Or think of Harriet Powers, born into slavery in 1837, who couldn’t read or write but told stories through her quilts. While caring for her own children and working as a slave, she created intricate appliqué quilts that told biblical stories and recorded historical events. Her creativity wasn’t a luxury—it was essential to preserving her culture and expressing her humanity in a world that denied her basic rights. Her quilts, now hanging in the Smithsonian, weren’t created in a studio with unlimited time; they were stitched together in moments between endless labor.
The Brontë sisters—Charlotte, Emily, and Anne—weren’t encouraged to be writers. They were expected to be governesses or wives. As children, they created tiny books filled with stories written in microscopic handwriting to keep them secret from adults. Even as adults, they originally published under male pseudonyms because women writers weren’t taken seriously. Their works—Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall—were born from years of storytelling in stolen moments, written between teaching duties and household responsibilities.
These women didn’t wait for permission to create, nor did they wait for that mythical stretch of uninterrupted time. They created within the constraints of their lives, finding ways to express themselves through the very acts of caretaking and domestic work that filled their days.
I’ve seen this play out in modern lives as well. A friend of mine started documenting the funny things her daughters said. She didn’t have time to write the novel she dreamed of, but she could jot down a quick quote on her phone. Over time, these collected quotes became a book of wisdom from children’s perspectives—a creative project that emerged from her role as a mother, not in spite of it.
Another woman I know, caring for her elderly parent, began taking one photograph each day of something beautiful in their home. These weren’t carefully composed shots taken with expensive equipment; they were quick snapshots on her phone—a shaft of light across her mother’s hands, the pattern of pills arranged in a weekly organizer, the worn pages of her mother’s favorite devotional. Over time, these photographs became a visual essay on aging, care, and the beauty found in difficult moments. Her creativity wasn’t separate from her caretaking—it was how she processed and found meaning in it.
A single mother I know, overwhelmed with parenting responsibilities while trying to maintain her artistic practice, found a creative solution. Rather than lamenting her lack of studio time, she began setting up art projects to do alongside her young son. These weren’t just activities to keep him occupied—they were thoughtfully designed explorations of color, texture, and form. As they created together, she not only produced art pieces of her own but also developed valuable teaching skills. Over time, she compiled these projects into a curriculum for teaching art to young children, transforming what could have been seen as an interruption to her creative life into a meaningful artistic evolution. Her creativity wasn’t separate from her parenting—it was how she enhanced her connection with her child while remaining true to her artistic self.
These women weren’t waiting for permission to create—they were living their art. They found ways to express themselves within the constraints of lives filled with responsibility, not by carving out separate time for creativity but by bringing creativity into the time they already had.
What Are You Already Doing That’s Creative?
As I began to see my own life through this new lens, I started to notice the creative acts I was already performing every day. The way I rearranged books, plants and candles on the coffee table when cleaning. The commiserating funny stories we women tell each other about our husbands and families. The words of encouragement I speak to friends and family in need.
These aren’t separate from my caretaking responsibilities—they are how I fulfill those responsibilities. They are how I bring myself—my whole self, including my creative spirit—to the work of caring for others.
What about you? What are you already doing that’s creative?
What do people come to you for? Is it your ability to offer the perfect words of encouragement at just the right moment? Your knack for making a simple meal feel like a celebration? Your talent for helping others see situations from new perspectives?
Where does creativity naturally show up in your life? Is it in the notes you leave in your child’s lunchbox? The way you arrange flowers cut from your garden? The stories you tell at bedtime? The solutions you devise for family conflicts?
What if, instead of dismissing these things as “just what you do,” you recognized them as creative acts? What if you honored them as expressions of your unique vision and voice? What if you recorded them—in a photo, in words, in a song, in a quick sketch—that could be compiled over time into a body of work? Whether for publication, incorporation into a longer work, for social media shares, or just to create a lasting legacy for your children and grandchildren?
You might be thinking, “But these aren’t real creative projects. They’re just everyday things.” That’s exactly the point. Creativity doesn’t have to be separate from everyday life. It can be how you approach everyday life.
The mother who turns bath time into an imaginative adventure with her child isn’t just getting through another parenting task—she’s creating a narrative experience. The caretaker who finds ways to make medication time less frightening for an elderly parent isn’t just completing a duty—she’s designing an experience. The person who writes a heartfelt note to a friend in need isn’t just being kind—she’s crafting words that heal.
These aren’t just nice things to do. They’re creative acts. They’re expressions of your unique perspective and approach to life. They matter.
Ideas for Infusing Creativity into Everyday Life
Once I began to see my life through this lens, possibilities opened up everywhere. I started to look for ways to bring more intentional creativity into the caretaking work I was already doing. Not as additional tasks that would overwhelm me further but as ways to be more fully present and engaged in the life I was already living.
If you’re a writer at heart, like me, words are your natural medium. Look for ways to weave language into your daily interactions. Leave notes for your loved ones—not just functional reminders, but words that surprise and delight. The Post-it on the bathroom mirror that says “Your smile makes the world brighter” for your teenager. A beautiful hand-written encouragement or expression of love and care on pretty paper snapped with your phone and texted to a friend or lover. The text message to your spouse that captures a beautiful moment from your day. The journal entry that transforms a frustrating caretaking experience into a reflection on patience and growth. Or even just a sentence from that journal entry. Or email. Or what was said out loud.
These aren’t grand creative projects that require hours of uninterrupted time. They’re small acts of creativity that fit into the spaces between responsibilities. And over time, they add up. That journal of reflections could become a memoir of caretaking. Those Post-it notes could be photographed and become a visual essay on parenting. Those text messages could be compiled into a love letter to your partner.
If you’re visually oriented, look for ways to bring beauty into everyday tasks. The way you arrange food on a plate for a family meal. The color-coded system you develop for managing household tasks. The thoughtful way you select and display family photographs. These aren’t just functional choices—they’re aesthetic ones. They’re expressions of your visual sensibility.
Take a moment to document these visual creations. A quick photograph of a beautifully arranged meal before it’s eaten. A snapshot of the organizational system you’ve developed. These images aren’t just records—they’re a body of work that reflects your unique way of seeing the world.
If you’re a natural storyteller, look for ways to weave narrative into your daily interactions. The bedtime stories you invent for your children. The way you recount the day’s events to your partner. The family histories you share with aging parents to help them connect with their memories. These aren’t just conversations—they’re oral literature. They’re the stories that shape your family’s understanding of itself.
Record these stories in whatever way feels manageable. A voice memo while you’re driving. A quick note in your phone. A dedicated notebook where you jot down the bones of the story before you forget. Over time, these collected stories could become a family history, a children’s book, or simply a treasure trove of memories that might otherwise be lost.
If you’re someone who naturally gives advice and support, recognize that this too is a creative act. The way you listen and respond to others’ struggles. The perspective you offer that helps them see their situation differently. The comfort you provide that helps them feel less alone. These aren’t just acts of kindness—they’re acts of creation. You’re creating connections, insights, and moments of healing.
Consider capturing the wisdom that emerges from these interactions. Not the private details but the universal truths that might help others. A notebook of reflections on what you’ve learned from supporting others. A collection of the phrases that seem to offer the most comfort. A blog post that shares an insight that emerged from a difficult conversation. These aren’t just records—they’re a body of work that reflects your unique perspective on human experience.
Whatever your natural creative inclination, look for ways to bring it into the life you’re already living. Not as something separate that requires additional time, but as a way to be more fully present and engaged in the responsibilities you already carry.
Show Up as Your Creative Self
What if you didn’t have to fight for time to create but instead let creativity exist inside the life you’re already living?
What if every note, every small act of beauty, every loving moment wasn’t just an obligation—but a form of art?
What if creativity isn’t something you do in addition to your life but rather how you live your life?
I look for ways to bring creative expression to caretaking – writing a poem for a friend, sketching a quick birthday month flower with its special qualities for my niece, sending written words of encouragement on beautiful paper with a wax stamp and popping them in the mail for family in need, recognizing the creative ways in which I manage different dog personalities and reflecting on the beauty of differences that oftentimes becomes words of inspiration and motivation that can be shared or weaved into longer narratives.
These aren’t separate from my life of caretaking—they’re how I experience and process that life. They’re how I bring my whole self, including my creative spirit, to the work of caring for others.
And something remarkable has happened. Instead of feeling like my creativity is being sacrificed to caretaking, I’ve begun to see caretaking itself as a creative act. The way I solve problems, the stories I tell, the systems I develop, and the beauty I create in everyday moments—these aren’t distractions from my creative life. They are my creative life.
This doesn’t mean I’ve given up on dedicated creative time entirely. I still write when I can. I still draw when the opportunity arises. But I no longer feel that my creativity is on hold until I can find that mythical stretch of uninterrupted time. I no longer feel that I’m not a “real” writer or artist because I can’t dedicate hours each day to my craft.
Instead, I’ve come to understand that creativity isn’t just what happens when I sit down at my desk with a blank page. It’s also what happens when I figure out how to make a frightened animal feel safe. It’s what happens when I find a new way to connect through images and words with those I love. It’s what happens I relate to those around me who have suffered through the burdens, loss and tremendous love of caring for and losing my mother to the disease of dementia.
Creativity doesn’t have to be a separate project. It can be how you move through the world.
So I invite you to look at your own life differently. See the creative potential in the responsibilities you already carry. Recognize the artistry in the care you already provide. Find ways to bring your unique vision and voice into the everyday acts of living and loving.
You don’t have to wait until you have more time, more freedom, more support. You don’t have to put your creative self on hold until your caretaking responsibilities ease. You can be both caretaker and creator, not by doing more, but by bringing more of yourself to what you’re already doing.
Your creativity hasn’t disappeared. It’s just waiting to be recognized in the life you’re already living.
CREDITS: cover photos: https://unsplash.com/@goian