& I don't ever want to wake up.

I titled this post about nine months before I ever sat down to write it. The cover photo—my camera-strapped reflection against the soft hills of a friend’s farm just outside Lompoc—was taken during a quiet chapter of big change. Love had just humbled me enough to ask: what now?

I’ve always loved hiding behind the lens, framing the world in a way that feels safe, meaningful. But the part that follows—sifting through thousands of shots to find the one that feels like the moment—I dread. Still, this photo floods me with emotion. It captures something that words can’t: the stillness, the shift, the self.

Each year, I take thousands of photos. Most are never shared. I let them collect like dust on my hard drives and folders—forgotten flashes of time that, in their silence, weigh heavy.

It’s not just avoidance. It’s a mix of object permanence struggles and self-doubt.

I forget the power of my own work. I forget my creativity. I forget myself.

And yet, I teach others about the creative process.

I believe deeply in the practice of showing up for your art. But if I’m not diligent, it slips through the cracks of everyday life. It’s a pattern I’ve repeated. I value sharing. I value knowledge.

I believe in art as power—for the people.

Sharing truthfully is a vulnerable act. But when we share, we create connection. We open a quiet door that lets others see the small details of their own lives reflected back. Vulnerability takes energy—but it is the energy of aliveness. To connect deeply, we must risk being seen; it’s the most sacred strength.

When I zoom out, the world can feel catastrophically bleak. The chaos is loud. But I’ve learned to return to where my energy is needed: in the practice of creativity. In art. In love. In showing up.

One particular book helped guide me here: The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin.

It’s a book that doesn’t just teach—it reminds. It’s the aloe balm for burned-out artists and a field guide for anyone who’s ever questioned the worth of their own creative voice.

Rick Rubin shares his gentle wisdom that reminds us: we’re all still kids inside. Healing is hard, but this book offers tools for navigating life with presence and purpose.

(Listen here: Audible Spotify or purchase a hardcopy at your local bookstore.)

I couldn’t see the daydream until I practiced gratitude.

I couldn’t feel grateful until I was kind to myself—and sought the help I needed to realign my mind.

I was wired to complain, using critique as conversation. But I became exhausted by the shallow depth of my own opinions.

Breaking my own patterns gave me space to start healing from the ones who broke me.

Now, I move forward—still healing, still creating—with a practice focused on celebrating who I am, not just what I’ve survived. I honor the art I’ve made. I cherish the love that surrounds me. And for this daydream life I am nurturing—this life I no longer want to wake up from—I am deeply, wildly grateful.

'til death, we do art.

Jasmine

Manic Creative Art