Today’s creative update isn’t shiny or finished or triumphant.
It’s the kind of realization that settles in your chest and refuses to move.
Sometimes projects don’t move forward.
Sometimes they stop you cold and force you sideways.
I had been making steady progress on this piece. Not fast progress, but the kind that feels earned. The kind where you start to trust it. I’d moved past the early stages. I was in it. I was attached.
And then I noticed something was off.
The cardboard base underneath the CelluClay had stayed too moist.
If you work with mixed media, you probably already know where this is going.
Mold.
Not the dramatic, throw-the-whole-thing-away kind — but close enough to make my chest tighten. I felt tears swelling up as this quiet, simmering rage took over. The kind that doesn’t explode, just burns. There was no denying it: the base had to go.
I wanted to destroy the entire project.
I wanted to rip it apart before it could disappoint me any further.
My emotional investment in this piece had become too much — and walking away felt easier than fixing it.
But I couldn’t let myself destroy it.
So the decision was made:
I’m cutting it all off.
That sentence alone carries more weight than it should.
Because this part isn’t really about cardboard or mold or materials. It’s about heartbreak. About realizing the foundation you trusted wasn’t strong enough, no matter how much care you put on top of it. About standing there knowing something is broken — and knowing you can’t ignore it into being whole again.
I’m now back at the very place this project was over three months ago.
Logically, I know I’m not truly starting over. I’ve learned things, sure. But emotionally? It feels like being dragged backwards. Like reopening something you thought you’d already moved past.
The frustration is heavy. The disappointment is sharp. And the anger sits right under the surface — the kind that makes you want to sweep everything into the trash just so it stops hurting.
There isn’t really anything I can do about those feelings besides acknowledge them and pivot.
And that’s the lesson I’m sitting with.
Not every setback needs to end in destruction, even when that feels like the most satisfying option in the moment. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is pause, admit the foundation failed, and rebuild instead of burning it all down.
This project is becoming something else entirely now. A reminder that creativity isn’t a straight line. It loops. It doubles back. It breaks your heart a little. And it teaches you things you didn’t ask to learn.
I don’t know exactly how the base will look this time. Maybe it’ll be similar. Maybe it’ll be completely different. What I do know is this pivot doesn’t mean failure. It means the project mattered enough to hurt — and mattered enough to fix instead of abandon.
And honestly? This moment fits the heart of Spiraling Creatively more than a perfectly finished piece ever could.
Some days creativity looks like inspiration.
Some days it looks like patience.
And some days it looks like heartbreak — a box cutter, a deep breath, and the quiet decision to begin again, not because you want to…
but because you still care.
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