Why Silence Sometimes Helps Creativity

It’s just that we live in a time when people prefer the race to stillness.
Who is faster, who is brighter,

who is smarter, who will come up with something no one has ever thought of before.
I belong to the last category.

Since childhood, I hated being held up as an example to other children.

In those moments, I wanted to disappear.

To dissolve.

To seep through the cracks in the wooden floor of the classroom where I was placed in front of all the other children like the best racehorse on the track, and announced in a loud voice:

The whole classroom would immediately go silent.

Thirty pairs of eyes would turn toward me, and I would start feeling sick all over again.

I felt like a horse at a market, whose teeth were being counted before someone decided whether to buy it.

Or not.

After that, nobody wanted to be friends with me for a while.

I was left alone among people.

I was sad, but I was never bored.

As a child, I was a huge dreamer.

A generator of ideas and energy.

So, I wasn’t exactly easy to be friends with.

Even my parents found me difficult.

They were constantly trying to make me quieter, smaller, less noticeable, but it never worked.

No one ever managed to make me smaller.

I love myself and life far too much to become a shadow.

For a while, I stopped writing.

I was taking care of my daughter and devoted almost all of my time to my family.

After she grew up, I returned to creating again.

It happened on its own.

I didn’t even have to relearn anything.

It was as if I had always known how to do it.

First there were memes,

then short videos, then editing, then illustrations, then articles, then essays.

I wrote a book in one breath.

At first, I didn’t take it seriously.

I wrote it while I was healing during my twin flame journey.

And for a while, I didn’t want to reread it.

I started writing another one.

I wrote it.

The Empath’s Diaries felt like warm milk with honey after a long bout of tonsillitis.

I felt like I was coming back to myself when I wrote it.

Not the old me.

The healed me.

It wasn’t about pain anymore.

It was about love.

I still love rereading it.

But after I finished it, I went silent.

I felt like I had said everything

I wanted to say.

I started editing long, emotional videos and making illustrations.

For a while, I didn’t feel like writing.

I enjoyed seeing the beauty of the visuals I created and getting aesthetic pleasure from them.

Only later did I understand

why I needed to be quiet.

My first book was subjected to a wave of hate.

Not because it was bad.

But because in it, I wrote the truth as I had experienced it.

The truth I had lived through and felt.

And that truth got in the way of maintaining a façade I had already refused to be part of.

It took me some time to understand that someone else’s reaction didn’t mean the book was bad.

Someone else’s reaction doesn’t determine the value of your art at all.

It only tells you what they saw in it and what it triggered in them.

With time, I learned to separate my work very clearly from other people’s reactions to it.

Today, I can write about whatever I want, and nothing makes me uncomfortable.

Today I want to talk about twin flames,

tomorrow — about creativity,

and the day after tomorrow — about my favorite white chocolate with hazelnuts 😂.

I love writing about my childhood.

About my spiritual path as a twin flame.

I don’t have to forget the past.

I have to let it go.

Those are two different things.

Especially because I enjoy writing about it.

I can do it with humor.

Every person can talk about their own experience if they want to.

They can choose not to.

They can return to a topic they once thought they had closed.

They can see it completely differently a month later.

I wrote my first book more than a year ago, and when I came back to it later, I realized that even then I could see the door.

Even then, I could see the mechanism.

I was simply still too close to the situation to clearly separate my responsibility from someone else’s, the way I can now.

Writing about your experience does not mean you are not healed.

Sometimes it is exactly the opposite — a person can calmly write about the past when they have already let it go.

Healing doesn’t have to look like:

Sometimes it looks much simpler:

We don’t have to choose our topics based on questions like,

“Who will this make comfortable?” or “What if someone decides I’m involved in it again?”

If you have something to say —

say it.

And if it bothers someone, hits a nerve, or makes them build some kind of narrative around your words — that is already their response to your content.

We cannot be responsible for the way every person experiences our art.

We can only create and be responsible for the meaning we put into it.

And that meaning may very well remain misunderstood or interpreted incorrectly.

I allow my readers to build whatever interpretations they want.

Let them.

Beautiful, ugly, whatever.

I’ll only be happy that my work gets a reaction.

I don’t need to destroy anyone’s illusions.

I don’t need to prove what is actually behind them.

I don’t need to explain why my content exists.

I don’t even need to look at what people think about it, the way I used to.

You simply write it and let it go.

Like a little bird set free.

And if someone comes to me and writes a good review, I’m happy.

Someone writes a bad one —

I don’t get upset.

That’s how they saw it.

It’s their right.

I am not giving away my life or my creativity in exchange for someone else’s comfort.

And perhaps there is a very simple rule I have found for myself today:

. . .

That really does feel like freedom.

When you can simply be without constantly looking over your shoulder.

Like a child.

Children don’t ask anyone what they should draw on the pavement.

They just draw.

And they are simply happy because of it.