Half-Baked.

What do you do when you can't find the words?

Hi there! I’m Hunter. I’m a mother of a two-year-old daughter, married to my British husband, and we live in Northwest Florida along the beautiful white, sandy beaches. I share about sacred & slow living as well as my own personal journey in being a mother and a creative. Make sure to subscribe to have my posts delivered directly to your inbox. Thank you for being here.

These days, I’m half-baked with my words. I have an embarrassingly large amount of drafts filled with my writing that feels undercooked. It’s not all there. Like a raw piece of chicken, it would feel deadly to serve too soon.

Of course, I don’t equate my writing with life or death, but there is a sense of completeness or fulfillment that I get out of delivering a piece from my mind into your virtual hands. I believe there are seasons to our work as creatives. There are outward seasons and there are inward seasons, just like Mother Earth.

I’ve been in an outward season, delivering at least one piece of my writing (even if it’s just a Simple Things) every week for the past 11 months. It’s felt effortless, and empowering even, to share my work in this way. But the past few months have turned from being in flow to a slog. It feels like I’m pulling the words out of me and will either share something before I’m ready or just keep piling up the drafts.

I’ve been trying to push through, and do always seem to have something to say even if it’s not my *best work*. But those deeper, insightful, pieces? I just can’t share without feeling completely backed by my confidence. So I hold them close, in my drafts, unwilling to set them free.

Is that me being a perfectionist, or is that me embracing the season I’m in?

I’ve noticed myself slowly pulling from sharing, posting, and engaging as I have been throughout the year. I don’t even have the capacity to read many others’ writing these days. Part of it is that my offline life is feeling so full I might just combust, and so I crave every moment I can of silence and space in my mind.

But the other part is that I’m simply bored of my own writing. I search my brain for the words and they just don’t come. I remember when I started writing here, the words would spill from my soul faster than my fingers could type. I would write 2 or 3 essays a day, ready to be delivered immediately. I couldn’t keep my ideas in and couldn’t wait to sit down to write. Everything felt potent, powerful, and truthful. But now, it feels dull, a bit dead, like the fallen leaves outside my window. Or the bears in the woods behind my house, ready to curl up for winter and hibernate.

I feel like a broken record lately, either saying the same thing or nothing at all. I know I’ve talked about writer’s block and ways to find your creativity again over the past few months, but I have to admit that I’m still in this space of being uninspired.

But, I also made a commitment to myself to write at least once a week every week, and I don’t want to break it now so close to the year mark. So, where does this leave me?

Half-baked.

And I’m learning to be okay with that. I’m learning to accept the seasons as I’m in them, and acknowledging them for what they are rather than ignoring and pushing through. I don’t feel burnt out, or even overwhelmed, just a dullness in what I have to share and a lack of inspiration.

The questions I’ve been asking myself are: do I turn inward fully and step away to find inspiration again, or do I practice diligence and continue writing, trusting that my creative spark will return when it’s meant to? Do I share less “worthy” content in the name of commitment, or do I allow my creativity to lead the way and lean into the void? Do I keep just trying to show up each week even if it feels lifeless, or do I let go of the outcome in favor of the journey?

The thing is that I don’t actually want to stop writing. I still write almost daily, I just feel this internalized pressure that I need to put out what I’m writing on a consistent basis. I never thought I might run out of the right words.

I don’t have an answer, and I don’t really know if I’m bringing you a question (or anything remotely helpful), but maybe you’ve been here too and can share with me how you got through it.

Being creative is in my bones, it’s the thing I most value other than my family and what I strive to do every single day. So I’m a bit scared that if I push it too much it’ll be gone forever, but I also know that it’s a practice I have to continue showing up for even when it feels hard.

I guess my biggest worry is: will you, dear reader, accept me as I am? And will I be okay if you don’t?

The pie is in the oven, the crust is a bit brown, but the filling is still jiggling away.

Maybe I’ll burn it by keeping it baking for too long, or maybe I’ll take it out too soon and ruin the entire recipe. Or, maybe it’ll be imperfect and still be delicious.

This is the mystery of creating art for ourselves, and for the world to see.