Just Me, Thinking Out Loud:
What it really looks like to build a creative life with ADHD, art, and no roadmap
This is what it looks like to try. To build something real with no roadmap.
To hold a dream in your hands while watching the hours slip through your fingers.
There are days when I feel like I’ve lost the thread. Not just of a single painting or project, but of how all the moving parts of this business are supposed to come together.
The truth is, I feel incredibly lucky to be doing what I’m doing. I’ve had a full year to explore my creative work, build Splinter and Bloom, write the Still Me blog, and start shaping a life that’s more aligned with who I really am. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel it slipping sometimes—like time is dissolving and I can’t move fast enough to catch it.
I’m only one person. And there are so many moving parts to this.
And never enough time.
The Unfinished Pieces, the Moving Parts, and the Noise of Time
It’s not just one painting sitting unfinished on my desk. It’s many—each one paused at a different stage, holding the momentum of a moment I can’t quite get back to. And while yes, part of me is scared to touch them again—scared I’ll mess them up—it’s more than that.
It’s the pressure.
I can't create the listing if the piece isn't finished. I can’t order the prints until the scan is done. I can't design the sampler pack until the card backs are finalized. I can’t make the ad until the photos are ready. Every step depends on the one before it—and when I can’t finish something, it starts to feel like everything is stuck.
And all the while, my brain is chattering:
You’ve only got two hours left before dinner. You forgot to run that ad. You lost three followers. You’re not getting comments. Maybe your content’s not engaging. Are you even doing enough? Should you go get a job? Will this even work?
This is ADHD—not just the distraction, but the constant internal noise of what isn’t done, what might go wrong, what you’re forgetting, and the clock that’s always ticking louder than the canvas.
Sometimes, I manage to hyperfocus through the noise. But even that has a cost. I might lose an entire day inside a piece, forgetting to eat, forgetting what else I needed to do. And I wonder—was that time wasted? Was it progress? Was it both?
I'm incredibly grateful to be here. Doing this work is meaningful, hard, beautiful work. And I'm also trying to figure it out as I go—trying to balance the passion with the pressure, the joy with the endless logistics. And in the middle of it all, I sometimes ask myself:
Am I missing something?
Is there a better way?
Am I still on the path—even when it feels like I’m standing still?
I believe in my art.
I see a place for it in the world, and I’m excited to share it with others.
I just wish I knew which step would be the one that tips it all forward.
Because starting a business takes time.
And sometimes it’s not clear what will land, or when. You just keep moving—moment by moment, piece by piece—and trust that something will catch.
A Few Gentle Steps That Helped Me Reset
This post isn’t a “how to fix everything” list.
But I did want to share a few simple things that helped me start moving again—steps I took this week to get back on track, in case they help you too.
When you’re stuck, spinning, or overwhelmed, try:
1. Sit beside the art, without pressure.
No goals, no expectations. Just be near it. Let it breathe beside you until you’re ready to re-enter.
2. Name the moving parts.
List out everything that’s swirling in your brain—unfinished work, tech tasks, products, emails, to-dos. Seeing it on paper makes it less monstrous.
3. Choose one mode, not one task.
Instead of forcing a strict schedule, I picked a mode for each day:
→ Flow (painting, creative exploration)
→ Function (admin, tech, uploads)
→ Connect (blogging, emails, IG)
→ Restore (rest, walks, thinking time)
I let myself move within that mode without guilt.
4. Create a tiny offer.
I stopped trying to build an empire and just created a simple thank-you card sampler. A micro-offer. Something real I could share without needing to "launch" it.
5. Paint just to paint.
Open your art journal or visual notebook. Choose three to five colors. Start painting without rules. Let your hands move before your brain catches up.
When I do this—and keep my unfinished pieces nearby—it breaks through the resistance. The creative door cracks open again.
And sometimes, without even meaning to, I start working on my unfinished pieces too. You just have to find the opening.
6. Reflect out loud.
Writing this post helped me stop the swirl.
I’ve learned that I’m someone who needs to get the inside out—to turn thoughts into something tangible. Whether it’s through paint, blog posts, voice notes, or messy pages in a notebook, externalizing is how I organize, regulate, and reconnect.
This is really common with ADHD.
Our minds often move faster than we can track—spinning with layers, loops, emotional overlays, and intuitive connections. It’s hard to sort anything out when it’s all inside.
Externalizing gives the chaos shape.
It’s how we turn the fog into something we can see, touch, or move around.
For some of us, that might mean:
Painting what we can’t put into words
Speaking our thoughts out loud just to hear what we think
Making lists—not to finish them all, but to see what’s in our head
Writing posts like this one—not because we’ve figured it all out, but because we’re trying to
For neurodivergent creatives, reflection isn’t just expression—it’s translation.
It’s part of the practice. It’s how we come home to ourselves.
If you’re in this space too—trying, pausing, starting again—I hope something here helps you feel a little less alone. There’s no perfect formula. Just small movements. Just moments of return. And maybe that’s enough to keep going.
Still me. Still you. Still becoming.
Splintered some days, blooming others. But always—me.