what happens to the things we love?

This letter was supposed to arrive around 8:00 this morning.

Sunday mornings are becoming my little ritual for these letters. I like the idea of waking up, putting one out into the world, and starting the week here.

But it's now decidedly later than 8:00 a.m.

Which, honestly, feels pretty appropriate for the letter I'm about to write.

I've been thinking about this question a lot this week:

What happens to the things we love when the things we are responsible for take everything we have?

Mostly because, if I'm being completely truthful, the things I am responsible for have taken just about everything I've had this week.

I started writing this yesterday evening, after working a little over fifty hours at my daytime job this week.

And I need to say this before this starts sounding like a dramatic I hate my job and want to run away letter:

I don't hate my job.

I am the Director of Sales and Events at the Columbus Museum of Art. There are a lot of things about my work that I genuinely love.

I get to look at art.

I work with people.

I create experiences.

I get to lead.

I solve problems.

I work alongside incredibly creative people in a building literally filled with things human beings made because they had something they wanted to say.

That's pretty special.

But also?

Yes.

I would absolutely love to dramatically quit my job tomorrow.

There. I said it.

Not because I hate my career.

Because there is another version of my life I can see so clearly sometimes.

I would live on a beautiful little piece of land near a lake or a river.

I'd have a small house — small enough that keeping it clean and organized didn't feel like another part-time job.

I'd write.

I'd paint.

I'd make things.

I'd tell stories.

I'd somehow make a living creating and helping people become a little more of whoever they are trying to become.

I can picture this life.

Unfortunately, I've checked, and apparently imagining it very vividly does not cause the lottery commission to send you a giant check.

a lot would be solved if this could happen.

And the truth is, I'm not brave enough to simply quit my job and see what happens.

I've tried something close to that before.

I started thinking too much about what kind of art I should make because it might sell.

I started watching my savings disappear faster than I was comfortable with.

The thing I loved making slowly became another thing I was trying to make perform.

And eventually reality got louder.

Life got more expensive.

So I went back to the thing I knew how to do.

Work.

Build.

Lead.

Be responsible.

And I'm good at those things.

Maybe that's part of the problem.

Because when you're someone people can depend on, people depend on you.

When you're capable, you get handed things.

When you're a leader, there are moments when your team genuinely needs you.

When you're a giver, giving doesn't always feel like a sacrifice.

A lot of the time it actually feeds something in me.

I like being the strong one.

I like helping.

I like solving the problem.

I like being someone other people know will show up.

But every few months, something happens.

There will be a few particularly busy weeks. Maybe a couple of hard months.

Work needs more.

Life needs more.

Someone I love needs more.

There are appointments and deadlines and events and emails and groceries and laundry and pets who apparently continue expecting dinner regardless of my schedule.

And I keep giving.

And giving.

And showing up.

And handling it.

Until suddenly I look around and realize:

Oh.

There's nothing left.

Not in the catastrophic sense.

I'm still functioning.

I'm still going to work.

I'm still answering emails.

I'm still feeding everyone who needs to be fed.

I'm still doing all of the things.

But that little reservoir where curiosity and creativity and possibility live?

Dry.

And that's the part I've been sitting with this week.

Because I think we talk a lot about priorities as though our calendars are purely a reflection of what matters most to us.

Make time for what's important.

Protect your peace.

If you really want it, you'll find the time.

I've probably said versions of those things myself.

But I'm not sure they're always true.

If you looked at my calendar this week, you might assume my job matters more to me than my art.

It doesn't.

You might assume answering emails matters more to me than writing.

It doesn't.

You might assume whatever operational problem needed solving at 7:00 p.m. mattered more to me than building The Little Joys of Art.

It probably didn't.

But responsibility and love are not the same thing.

And neither are urgency and importance.

Sometimes the thing screaming the loudest gets us.

Sometimes the thing that pays us gets us.

Sometimes the people relying on us get us.

Sometimes the basic maintenance required to keep a human life functioning gets us.

And the things we love quietly wait.

That's the heartbreaking part.

The things we love are often the least demanding things in our lives.

My sketchbook isn't going to send me a follow-up email.

The painting I haven't started isn't going to be disappointed in me.

The book I want to write won't put a meeting on my calendar.

The Little Joys of Art isn't going to knock on my bedroom door and announce that it needs dinner.

It just waits.

And because it waits, it can be incredibly easy to keep saying:

Tomorrow.

This weekend.

After this busy season.

After this event.

After the holidays.

After things calm down.

When I have more energy.

When I'm less tired.

When life isn't quite so...life.

And I think that's the question underneath the question.

What happens to the things we love while they're waiting for us?

This week, The Little Joys of Art didn't get very much of me.

I made one social media post.

I placed an order for two custom Halloween cards I had created for clients.

And I'm writing this letter.

A letter that, fittingly, didn't even make its self-imposed 8:00 a.m. Sunday deadline.

That's it.

There is a part of me that doesn't want to admit that.

Because I have plans.

So many plans.

Paintings I want to make.

Cards I want to create.

Things I want to write.

A business I want to build.

A community I keep imagining.

And giving it three tiny things in an entire week feels almost embarrassingly insufficient compared with everything living inside my head.

Especially knowing next week doesn't look much different.

There isn't a neat productivity lesson coming here.

I'm not about to tell you I've discovered the perfect morning routine.

I am definitely not waking up at 4:30 a.m. to “choose my dreams.”

At 4:30 a.m., I choose unconsciousness.

And I don't think the answer is cramming more accomplishment into every available crack in our lives.

Maybe the answer starts somewhere smaller.

Because I can't quit life.

I can't stop being responsible.

I can't stop needing an income.

I don't want to stop being there for people I love.

And I don't want to become someone who protects her own dreams so fiercely that there is no room left to show up for anybody else.

That wouldn't feel like me either.

But maybe I have to learn how not to quit myself in the process.

Maybe that's what this week was.

Two Halloween cards ordered.

One Instagram post made.

And this slightly-late Sunday letter.

Not exactly the creative empire I have pictured in my head.

But perhaps those tiny acts are me tapping the glass from inside this very busy life and saying:

I'm still here.

The artist is still here.

The writer is still here.

The woman who dreams about the little house by the water is definitely still here.

She's tired.

She's got work again next week.

She's apparently still waiting on that lottery check.

And this morning, she didn't hit publish at 8:00.

But she showed up eventually.

She hasn't disappeared.

And maybe some weeks, that's enough.

Maybe the things we love don't always need us to completely rearrange our lives for them.

Maybe sometimes they simply need us to keep coming back.

Even if all we can give them is a little bit.