The Invisible Pause: What Happens Between Wanting to Create and Actually Starting

There’s a space that artists don’t talk about enough.

It’s not creative block.
It’s not procrastination exactly.
It’s not even fear in the way we usually define it.

It’s the pause.

The quiet ache between the moment you feel a desire to create—and the moment you actually pick up the brush, pen, clay, camera, fabric, or stylus and begin.

Sometimes that pause is a few hours.
Sometimes it’s a few weeks.
Sometimes it’s years.

And it’s filled with this strange stew of longing, resistance, shame, daydreaming, research, scrolling, buying new supplies, reorganizing the studio, questioning your worth, comparing yourself to strangers online, and then wondering why you can’t just start.

You can feel the ideas inside you—urgent, tender, electric.

You care about this work.

And still… the starting feels impossible.

Why?

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Because you’ve internalized invisible weights:

• The belief that you have to know what you’re making before you begin.

• The guilt of past unfinished projects.

• The pressure to make it good, meaningful, shareable.

• The grief of time lost and skills rusted.

• The comparison to a past version of yourself who was more prolific, more confident, more "together."

So you wait for a better day.

For the energy to return.

For clarity.

For motivation.

But here’s the hard truth:

That day rarely arrives the way we imagine.

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You start to believe the pause means something about you.

You think it’s a sign you’re not really an artist.

That you don’t want it enough.

That you’ve missed your chance.

The pause is part of the process.

But it’s not meant to be permanent.

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After I got home from the Connecticut art retreat, I felt like I was buzzing with energy.

My style was emerging and making me smile.

I had new techniques to try, a deep sense of possibility, and an unfinished painting I knew I wanted to finish.

But a week went by.

Then two.

The painting sat on my art table like a friendly ghost—something I loved, but couldn’t face.

Not yet.

I told myself I was “thinking about it.” But really, I was scared.

What if I couldn’t do it justice?

What if I couldn’t hold onto the magic I felt at the retreat?

The pause crept in.

What got me moving again wasn’t discipline.

It was kindness.

I made a cup of tea.

I cleaned my brushes.

I wrote in my journal about what the painting was trying to say.

I spent five minutes adding one single layer to the canvas.

That’s it.

Just five minutes.

And the pause broke.

It wasn’t elegant, but it was honest.

And honest is enough.

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A Better Way Forward

1. Acknowledge the pause without judgment.
Say it out loud: “I want to create, but I haven’t started yet. And that’s okay.” Naming it disrupts the shame spiral.

2. Create a micro-start ritual.
Something smaller than making art. Brew tea. Light a candle. Open your sketchbook and make a single mark. This bypasses the perfectionism that blocks real beginning.

3. Get accountable to a safe space.
Not performative accountability. Supportive accountability. Someone who knows your struggle and celebrates your tiny steps. You can let myself or our community know.

4. Pick a path and stay on it.
One class. One medium. One project. Stop switching lanes. Give your creative self the gift of containment. Depth over breadth.

5. Let it be awkward.
The first 10 minutes might feel clunky. The first piece might disappoint you. That’s not a sign to stop—it’s a sign you’ve begun.

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The Promise

The pause doesn’t mean you’re broken.
It doesn’t mean you’re done.
It means something inside you still longs to be expressed.

And that longing is proof of life.

You are not behind.
You are not too late.
You’re in that sacred, wobbly place of becoming.

Start small.

Start now.

Let today be the day you walk through the pause and pick up your tools again.

Your art is still here.

So are you.

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Gentle Journal Prompts

• What does the pause feel like in my body? Where do I carry it?

• What’s the story I’m telling myself about why I haven’t started yet?

• What would it look like to start without pressure? What’s the smallest possible first step?

• If my art didn’t have to be good, what would I make today?

• What am I afraid will happen if I start creating again? Is that true?

• What part of me is longing to be seen and expressed?

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If you’d like a soft place to begin again, join me and other creative women on Zoom in July after I return from France, where we’ll talk about how to move through the invisible pause together.

Send me a DM or email at lynn@lynnhardin.com and I will put you on the waitlist.

💛 Lynn