The Strange Comfort of Making Something Ugly First

There’s a moment, every time I try something crafty, when I freeze. Not out of fear, but perfection. That voice in my head goes: “You don’t even know what you’re making.” And honestly? Most times, I don’t. I just need to touch something that doesn’t scroll.

Last week I sat down with scraps of paper, a glue stick, and no plan. Ten minutes in, it looked like a raccoon made a ransom note. Twenty minutes in, it started to feel like…a map. Not a real one, but of something emotional. Like a route from “I’m tired” to “I’m here.”

I used to think inspiration came first—like you had to wait for a vision to land. But now I trust my hands more than my moodboard. They find the thread before my brain does. Sometimes it’s clay. Sometimes it’s fabric. Sometimes it’s a broken brooch I’ve moved from drawer to drawer for six years.

The magic isn’t in making something beautiful. It’s in realizing that even a messy blob or wonky stitch can hold a piece of your day. That you *can* turn nothing into something with just your fingers, time, and a little willingness to look foolish.

And anyway, the good stuff always comes after the first ugly layer.