When did we become so afraid? Creativity in your 20s

There is a certain vulnerability in understanding yourself and finding all the things that you fear. Rather, it is like finding the deepest places in which you hid the monsters.

Drawing light through the haze — a reminder that joy can exist even in blurred moments

As a generation, we hid our fears because we were afraid to follow the footsteps of our parents, to make the mistakes they did. Yes, we learn from their mistakes, but to avoid them, we create such high walls that we forget a way out, and the walls keep growing in strength. But when the storm passes, we forget that now we can come out; we don't need the walls anymore. Unfortunately, the walls are too high now, and we don't have a way out, so we block the sunlight from coming in. We try hitting it, we try with all our strength, and then the wall cracks — tiny slivers of sunlight come in.

A path through shadow and light, Marlow — the walls always crack somewhere.

I wrote those words last year. They've been sitting in my drafts ever since, like so many other fragments of thoughts I've captured but never quite known how to piece together. Today, watching something beautiful and moving, I felt something crack open inside me.

Sometimes art does that. It strips away the layers you've built around yourself, makes you see your vulnerability, your uncomfortableness and reminds you of who you are underneath all the protection.

The Architecture of Permission

My whole life has been about permissions. Permission to go to the toilet, permission to speak up, permission to write, permission to drink water, permission to wear clothes I like, permission to go out, permission to dream, permission to cry and laugh, permission to feel, permission to exist.

Charms and talismans in Pyrgos, Santorini — protection, rules, and the symbols we hang around ourselves.

My whole life has been about permission, yet nobody prepared me to give myself the permission to love, permission to do things for myself, permission to be selfish, permission to say no, permission to be sad, permission to be angry, permission to love myself, permission to recognise who I am, permission to see myself as more than what I can do, permission to see myself as more than what I have achived, permission to see how much I'm loved, permission to feel, permission to just be, permission and permissions and permissions.

The Molding

The wildness at the Yorkshire Dales — how the world shapes us, and how we shape it back.

I recently realised that as kids, our perceptions of the world are so skewed—not flawed, but rather moulded. Moulded by external forces, moulded by parents and their perceptions, moulded by friends, moulded by things we watch, moulded by our teachers, schools, books, music and the world around.

Everything is according to instructions, everything streamlined. I was made to see things a certain way and believe in them with my whole heart, yet now I know I was wrong. I'm not blaming anyone—it's not their fault—but it has just made me think about things differently now, after years.

Those moulds shaped more than just my worldview; they shaped my relationship with my own dreams. Somewhere along the way, I learned that creativity was something you did after everything else was taken care of. That passion was freedom, yet pursuing it was a privilege that you earned.

The Hungry Learner

Shared sweetness in Bruges — small moments of joy that feed the hungry learner.

Am I a hungry learner? How do I become one? What happened to the one inside me? Did I give up? Did I become too content?

These are the questions that haunt me at 11:31 am. Thoughts that surface when I'm supposed to be focused on survival instead find myself wondering where that curious part of me went.

Sunlight spilling into Newport — the cracks that let the flowers bloom.

I look in people's windows. I am obsessed with other people and how they live lives I am unaware of. The little routines of everyday that make us different and make us whole.

The irony isn't lost on me—I'm worried about losing my curiosity while romanticising life. I'm concerned about creative disconnection while my brain naturally gravitates toward stories, wondering about the world behind those windows.

The Space Between

Every day feels full and empty at the same time. Full of purpose, satisfaction, learning, yet a step towards a new path that is unknown to me. Maybe this is what finding your way back to creativity looks like in your 20s—not some dramatic return, but this quiet recognition of what's missing.

Looking outward, looking inward — windows hold more than just a view.

Stories everywhere, but I'm watching from the outside, collecting fragments I don't know what to do with. The disconnect isn't dramatic. It's quiet. It's waking up and realising you've built a life that makes sense on paper but feels like wearing someone else's clothes. It's loving what you do while mourning what you're not doing. It's the strange grief of dreams that aren't dead, just... waiting.

What Art Reminded Me

Leaning, holding on, searching for perspective.

Sometimes you need someone else to show you the truth. Today, watching something that moved me, I was reminded that the things we love—the things that make us feel most alive—don't follow neat timelines. They exist in their own time, waiting for us to stop running from them.

The sunlight is still trying to get through those cracks in the wall. Today, for the first time in months, I'm not trying to block it out. There's no neat conclusion here. No roadmap for finding purpose when you're twenty-something and everything feels both urgent and uncertain.

Just this: I'm tired of asking permission to want things that don't fit into categories. Tired of pretending that the part of me that sees stories everywhere isn't real just because it's inconvenient. Maybe the hungry learner never left. Maybe she's been here all along, collecting fragments, looking through windows, waiting.

I'm telling her now: you don't need permission. You never did. The walls are still there, but they're cracking. Some sunlight is coming in. That has to be enough for now.

Love,

~K

Catching myself in the act of learning — reflection as both surface and depth.