The Time I Put My Creative Fire on Ice

I pushed pause on my painting practice because it felt like my life depended on it.

Not my actual life — my inner life. The life of the little girl in me who had already survived enough death-by-heartbreak for one lifetime.

Closing My Studio Door (and What I Was Really Closing Off)

For nearly two years, I turned off the heat in my studio and closed the door. Because even walking past the sight of it made me wince from the remembrance of the sharp sting of self-criticism, harsh self-judgment and the feeling of quiet despair.

I didn’t just avoid it. I barricaded myself from it — energetically, emotionally, spiritually.

People would ask, “How is your painting going?” I’d smile and say, “oh, I’ve been too busy to paint… doing other things….”

But the truth is… I wasn’t on a break. I had placed my creative spirit in witness protection.

My quiet rebellion to not create what I love turned out to be one of my most loving and creative moves yet.

Because it ushered in a changing of the guard.

That guard?

The entity in me that told me I had to be impressive to be accepted. Who measured my worth in applause, validation, and whether or not they liked what I made. The one who whispered, over and over: You are never good enough and that being “good enough” was never enough to make them stay anyway.

You don’t have to be an artist for this to be your story, too.

The Ache Under the Armor

But beneath that long creative exile, something sacred began to stir.

It was Her. A quiet grief. A swelling ache. A knowing that what I was calling “safety” was actually abandonment —of the part of my soul I cherished most: the artist.

Her.

The girl inside me. The child with colors in her blood. The child with the eyes that were hungry for beauty, and the hands that couldn’t stop creating it. The one who had been ripped apart by my own “shadow masculine” need to prove herself, earn her keep, be acceptable, be wanted. The wolf that warned her of how dangerous it is to feel so much, so it devoured her innocence, her desire, her joy…her life force.

One day, in meditation, I felt the ache of missing her.

I called to her, longing to feel her again.

“What does she want to paint?” I asked.

And then — a beautiful parade of paintings passed before my mind’s eye, created from everything she loves and always has loved. Her paintings. And I knew — they were mine.

She was still there. She was still feeling. She was reminding me of what she loves, what she wants. And I wanted to give it to her.

I peeked into my cold studio and was horrified to see that mold had begun to creep across the plastic-draped walls- my creative sanctuary was in decay. And I knew: it was time for a new protector to emerge- one who would champion my creative fire, not protect me from it.

I opened the door. I cleaned, redesigned and reclaimed by creative space. I tore down the plastic sheeting and draped the walls with breathable, canvas drop cloths. I pre-mixed an abundance of my favorite colors, ready for her brush, her fingers. I hung my works-in-progress all around me where they could commune with me, and whisper who they are and what they wanted to become.

The Protector That Over-Protects

The punishing inner protector is loyal. It’s not trying to be the villain. It’s the armored black knight who rushes in when our inner child whispers: It’s not safe to be who I am, and to feel this much.

Not safe to love something so deeply it might break our hearts. Not safe to want what we truly want — or to be felt wanting it.

So the Protector shuts it down with negative self-talk, false beliefs of our unworthiness, fears of scarcity, and minimizes our needs and desires.

It kills our eros- our very own life-force.

Our joy. Our sensuality. Our radiance. Our creativity. Our right to say yes when our bodies lights up and no when it contracts. And it steer us away the divinely-given life path of our desire.

And that’s the piece I want every woman to hear:

You are a creator- of your life. Every single day —with your words, your choices, your relationships, your home, your gestures, your being. With your love and desire.

But when this kind of protector is in charge, it will have you surviving on crumbs instead of flourishing on feasts.

The Protector doesn’t just stop paintings and poetry. It stops play. Pleasure. Intimacy. Receiving. Aliveness. It guards your wounded heart fiercely- so fiercely that you can forget what it feels like to be turned on by life.

It’s time to thank this kind of protector and retire it. It’s time to hire a new protector- one that champions your life force- that cleans, redesigns, and reclaims the creative playground of your life so your eros can thrive

Have You Locked a Beautiful Piece of Yourself out in the Cold, Behind a Locked Door?

So I want to ask you, gently —

Is there something you’ve stopped doing, or never let yourself start, because deep down you’re afraid of how much it would mean to you?

Are you protecting yourself from the very thing that would bring you back to life?

Because I get it. I really do.

The protector in me loved me so much, it was willing to sacrifice my joy to keep me safe.

But my inner child-artist —the one whose body tingles at the sight of color, who dances with her brush with joy —she wanted that to be safe, too.

Opening the Door Again to HER

And now… I'm gently again.

Not to be good. Not to impress. Not to be worthy.

But because I want to. Because I love to. Because I’m choosing to create for her —the girl inside me who never stops dreaming in color. And gently allowing her to play.

Tell Me How You Hid Your Fire

If this touched something in you —if you’ve ever dulled your own light to stay protected, if you’ve mothballed your desires because the ache of not getting them felt too great —

I see you.

Where does your protector shows up? Let’s name this pattern. Let’s reclaim our eros — whatever that is for each of us.

Because creating anything isn’t about being good enough. It’s about feeling alive.

XOLinda