Learning Out Loud: Why I Let Myself Be a Student Again

There’s something humbling—and surprisingly freeing—about letting yourself be a beginner again.

Not just in the obvious ways, like starting a new job or hobby. But in the quieter, more vulnerable spaces where you’ve already put in the hours. Where something isn’t quite working, but you don’t yet know how to fix it. Where the stakes feel high because you’ve already invested time and heart—and you don’t want to ruin what’s there.

This week, I let myself draw over a painting I knew wasn’t finished—because I finally asked for help. I didn’t want to ruin what was already working, and I didn’t have the knowledge or clarity to move forward. But when my instructor gently suggested what was missing—and encouraged me to draw directly on top of the painting—I chose to trust the process. And that choice reminded me that being a student isn’t a step backward. It’s an act of courage and growth.

The Painting I Knew Wasn’t Finished

One of the pieces I brought to class was from my Lake Ontario series. I had put time and heart into it—but I knew something was off. It wasn’t done. I could feel it.

But I didn’t know how to finish it.

I didn’t want to overwork it or ruin what was already working. I lacked the knowledge, the clarity—and, honestly—the confidence. So I paused. I stopped pushing. I brought it, along with a few other unfinished pieces, to my workshop and asked for guidance.

My instructor gently showed me what I couldn’t see on my own yet. She pointed out where the composition fell flat, where the eye had nowhere to travel, and what might bring it back to life.

And then she said the thing that made me hesitate:
“You need to draw directly on top of it.”

I took a breath—and did it.

What followed was not a mess but a map. That drawing became a guide. I filled in the new shapes with paint. I added light and shadow. I rebalanced the composition. And just like that, the painting deepened, defined itself, and came together.

And isn’t that true of life?

So often, we stop short—not because we’re wrong, but because we’ve gone as far as we can with what we know. And in those moments, when we’re willing to ask for help and stay open to redirection, the next step reveals itself.

Sometimes, growth looks like drawing on top of something you thought was finished—and watching it transform into what it was meant to be.

Letting the Website Teach Me Too

It’s not just in art.

A few months ago, I hired someone to build my website. When it didn’t work out, I was frustrated—but calm. I regulated myself, watched tutorials, and got back to basics. It took longer than I wanted. It was messy. But it’s mine now. And I’m proud of it.

Just like in painting, I had to choose process over perfection. To stop fearing the mess and start learning from it.

In Parenting, Too: Student Energy Helps

Even as a teacher and parent, I’ve had to reclaim “student energy.” When my child is dysregulated, when strategies fail, when a meltdown happens in public—I have to remember I don’t need to have all the answers. I need to stay open, curious, and compassionate.

Being a student of parenting doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.
It means I know there’s always more to learn about this child, this moment, this need.

The Creative Load of Caregiving

And here’s something else I want to say—especially to the women and caregivers reading this:

You are already using the creative side of your brain all day long—and often all night, too.

I hear it often:
“I wish I had time to paint. Or write. Or knit. Or do anything creative.”

However, that sentiment often overlooks the entire truth. It’s not just about time—it’s about capacity.

After planning three meals a day (plus snacks) for multiple humans, holding everyone’s schedule in mind, and constantly reworking plans for school pickups, sports, doctor appointments, holidays, birthdays, and more—it’s no wonder there’s nothing left in the tank.

And that’s assuming everyone is healthy, the car doesn’t break down, and you’re getting help (spoiler: most of us aren’t).

I remember when my children were young, and people would say:
“You should start painting again.”
I’d think: “When? Midnight? After everyone’s asleep, and I’ve finished the homework for my graduate class after working all day?”

The mental load that mothers and caregivers carry isn’t just about logistics—it’s inherently creative. It’s constantly solving puzzles, adapting plans, and using the emotional and imaginative parts of the brain to keep your family’s world turning.

And science backs this up.

One study found that a high cognitive load significantly decreases creative output because those mental pathways are already in overdrive (source: ScienceDirect).

💬 Another study showed that mothers carry around 71% of their household’s cognitive and emotional management load (source: Psychology Today).

So, if you finally get a quiet moment and feel too brain-fried to write a sentence or pick up a brush? That’s not laziness. That’s a creative system asking for recovery.

You’re not unmotivated. You’re exhausted.
And that’s allowed.

Let your art, your journal, or your messy draft be a place where you receive, not perform.

Staying Open Is a Practice

We often discuss growth mindset, but it’s easy to forget that being open requires effort. It’s a choice. Sometimes, it means letting go of a finished draft, a favorite brushstroke, or an approach that once worked.

Staying open doesn’t mean we lack wisdom.
It means we’re wise enough to stay teachable.

If You’re in a Learning Season...

Here’s your permission to be in process.
Sketch over something you thought was done.
Revise. Reroute. Restart.

Let being a student again feel like a return to possibility—not a failure to master it.

Because learning out loud is brave—
and you’re not alone in it.

With you in the process,
creating from the chaos,
Kate

Why Creativity Heals: My Journey Back to Art, Story, and Soul

Creativity has always been a part of my life—but for a long time, I didn’t call it that.

In elementary school, I used drawing and design to dissociate from the bullies who harassed me daily. It wasn’t just a distraction—it was a lifeline. In high school, I stitched quilts, drapes, and clothes after school to earn money. In college, after too many semesters of trying to be “practical,” I finally allowed myself to add art as a second major. Still, I struggled with the belief that artists weren’t taken seriously—that they didn’t work hard or couldn’t support themselves.

When I became a mother, I found creative outlets in the everyday. I crocheted through pregnancies and sleepless nights, took photos of my children, and built layered scrapbooking pages to hold the memories. After my divorce, I turned to writing—sharing essays, stories, and reflections as a healing practice. It became a way to make meaning from the chaos.

As a teacher, I create every day. Lessons. Schedules. Inclusive activities. I design ways for young children to feel seen, included, and excited about learning. That, too, is art.

For the past four years, I’ve been writing children’s picture books rooted in social-emotional learning—stories that reflect the real emotional lives of young kids and the adults who love them. And then, after a catastrophic injury and shoulder reconstruction, I finally paused. In that space of recovery, I returned to painting—something I hadn’t made time for in 25 years.

This time, I paint what I want to paint. Not what I think will sell. Not what others expect. I’m developing my style slowly and intentionally, taking classes, attending workshops, and staying open to growth. I’ve reclaimed the joy of learning for learning’s sake.

And something beautiful is happening in my family: my daughter, always an artist, is now studying medical illustration in college. My teenage son has begun capturing deep space through astrophotography. We are a family of creators, each following our curiosity in our own way.

What I’ve learned in recent years—through research, therapy, and lived experience—is that being creative is also a form of brain care. For those of us with neurodivergent wiring, creativity increases dopamine, boosts mood, and fosters a sense of hope. Even small acts of making—journaling, painting, knitting, crafting, cooking—can offer a reset when life feels overwhelming.

That’s not to say selling your art is a bad thing. Not at all. But if creating starts to feel like a chore, it’s okay to pause and ask: Is this bringing me joy? If not, why?

Creativity takes many forms. Maybe you knit once a week, plant a garden, bake bread, or doodle during meetings. Maybe you organize a space in your home with intention and care. Especially for women, creativity shows up in everything we do—when we nourish our families, tend to a porch plant, or write a loving note. What we focus on expands. What we pour ourselves into grows. That is miraculous.

I believe creativity heals—not just for artists, but for all of us.

So as I continue sharing my work more openly through painting, writing, and teaching, I invite you to do the same. Engage with your joy. Give yourself that daily dopamine boost. Make something that makes you smile.

Together, let’s raise the vibration of the world around us—one small act of creativity at a time.