This afternoon, I found myself doing the kind of slow, quiet maintenance that never makes it onto a to-do list. I opened the media folder on my website — a place I rarely visit — and started clearing out old product files.
Prints. Mockups. Tote bag previews. Custom cutting board reviews. All the remnants of a time when I thought the way forward was to offer more: more products, more formats, more options. Please everyone with everything and make some passive income to boot! Two years ago it all felt exciting. Now it feels like looking at a stranger’s online shop.
I’m simply not that person anymore.
Somewhere along the way, without a big announcement or a dramatic shift, my practice changed shape. I no longer feel pulled toward online print shops or hustling to stock a digital storefront.
I don’t want to turn my art into templates for bags and mass-produced journals and coin bags. I don’t want to chase volume or trends.
I want to create slowly and offer things that mean something to me. That feel true. That you can brush your fingers on and feel the raised textures, the edges, my pulse.
The deeper I went into those old files, the clearer 2026 is beginning to look. I think I may have found my word for next year, too.
I want 2026 to be simple.
Clear.
Unhurried.
Aligned with the version of me that exists now — not the version who thought she had to be everywhere at once.
So, I’m taking stock of the kind of sharing I can sustain: something that is woven into the natural rhythm of my days.
I’ve come to accept that I’m not built for constant prompts, schedules, and content calendars. I want spaciousness in my life — creative and otherwise — and I want to offer from that place, not in spite of it.
As I plan for early 2026, that’s really all I know:
Fewer things, done with more depth.
Less noise, more clarity.
One space to be. This. Here. Now.
And that’s enough.
