More time.
More energy.
An office outside of the home.
A quieter house.

But motherhood has taught me something different.

Sometimes creativity begins with one small corner.

This little space has slowly become my favorite place in our home. It's where I sit to write blog posts, sketch new illustrations, organize ideas, and dream about everything I hope I Am Christina XO will become one day.

It's not a perfectly styled studio.

Most days there are toys scattered across the floor, dishes waiting in the sink, and a toddler calling for me from the next room.

But this corner reminds me that I don't have to wait for the perfect season to create.

I can create right here.

The Inspiration Board

If there's one thing people notice first, it's the board above my desk.

Ironically, it hasn't changed much.

I put it together back in the spring, and for the most part, it's stayed exactly the way it is.

Every now and then I'll pin up a photograph while I'm working on a new blog post or illustration. I'll let it live there for a little while, and then I'll take it down again.

But the heart of the board never really changes.

I've thought about taking everything off and starting over.

I never do.

Because every time I look at it, it still feels like me.

The handwritten notes, the soft textures, the flowers, the photographs—they're reminders of the kind of life I'm trying to create. Not a perfect life, but a slower one. A creative one. A home filled with beauty in ordinary moments.

I don't keep this board because I need constant inspiration.

I keep it because sometimes I need a place that quietly reminds me who I am.

A Calm Workspace

I've realized that my surroundings affect the way I create.

Soft textures.

Neutral colors.

Natural light.

Candles.

Fresh notebooks.

Simple tools.

None of these things make me more talented.

But they make this space feel welcoming.

Instead of sitting down because I have to work, I sit down because I genuinely want to spend time here.

For me, that's made all the difference.

More Than a Desk

When people see this little corner, they probably see a desk.

I see something else.

I see the place where blog posts begin.

Where illustrations start as tiny ideas.

Where Pinterest graphics come together.

Where dreams become plans.

Where ordinary afternoons slowly become memories.

This space has witnessed seasons of motherhood, days when creativity flowed easily, and days when I wondered if I'd ever feel creative again.

It's been there through both.

Creating During Motherhood

One of the biggest lessons motherhood has taught me is that creativity doesn't disappear.

It changes.

I don't have long stretches of uninterrupted time anymore.

Most days, I create during Liam's quiet time while he happily plays in the living room. Every so often, he'll wander over to see what I'm working on before running back to his toys.

My iced coffee usually sits beside me long enough for the ice to melt.

The laundry waits in baskets a little longer than I planned.

Sometimes the clean clothes stay folded on the couch.

Sometimes they never get folded at all.

There are days when I choose to spend an hour writing or sketching instead, and before I know it, the baskets have turned into little mountains.

Years ago, that probably would have made me feel guilty.

Now I'm learning that making space for creativity isn't taking something away from my family.

It's taking care of a part of myself that deserves attention too.

The laundry will get folded.

The coffee will get watered down.

But the ideas don't always wait.

So when they come, I'm learning to welcome them.

Why This Corner Matters

This isn't about having a beautiful home office.

It's about creating a place that invites me back to myself.

A place that reminds me I am more than the never-ending to-do lists.

I'm still curious.

I'm still creative.

I'm still becoming.

Every photograph, sketch, handwritten note, and flower pinned to this board is a quiet reminder that growth often happens slowly.

One idea.

One drawing.

One blog post.

One ordinary day at a time.

Thank you for taking a little look inside my creative corner.

I hope it reminds you that you don't need an entire studio to begin creating.

Sometimes all you need is one small space that feels like home.

Today, I sat at the dining table writing while my son cried in his room.

I don't even know why he was crying anymore. Maybe he was frustrated. Maybe he was tired. Maybe I was too.

I sat there because I needed a moment—a small pause before I let one hard moment turn into a hard day.

Motherhood can feel like that sometimes.

You're plugging on. Holding on. Trying.

Trying to keep everyone fed. Trying to stick to schedules. Trying to manage tantrums and emotions—your child's and your own. Trying not to lose control when it feels like the day already has.

We make plans and routines because we're trying to create some sense of order, but life with children isn't something we can control completely.

Maybe we're not trying to control life.

Maybe we're just trying to make it through the day.

People often say, "You can't pour from an empty cup."

And yet, mothers do it every day.

We pour into our children, our partners, our homes, and our endless lists of things that need to be remembered and done. We schedule appointments, plan meals, wash clothes, clean kitchens, soothe big feelings, and carry the invisible work of holding a family together.

Then somewhere along the way, we're expected to take care of ourselves too.

Sometimes self-care feels like another task on the list—a task we rarely get to.

If I'm honest, I hardly do it.

Most days, I don't get dressed. My hair stays undone. I put myself last because it feels easier than trying to fit one more thing into an already full day.

No one is asking me to disappear, but somewhere between being a good mom and a good wife, I've forgotten how to show up for myself.

And that's the hard truth: no one else can do that for me.

Yes, I have a wonderful husband. But he can't be responsible for my relationship with myself.

Only I can choose to show up for Christina.

Not perfectly. Not all at once.

Just little by little.

Because there's another part of me that's still here—the creative part.

She calls to me every day.

Ideas arrive suddenly and vividly. I feel them like a spark, like a fire ready to come back to life.

But I push them away.

Not because I don't love creating, but because creating feels different now. I compare myself to who I was before motherhood, before my days belonged to someone else too.

I miss that version of me sometimes.

But maybe I'm not meant to go back to her.

Maybe the goal isn't to find the Christina I used to be.

Maybe it's to make space for the Christina I'm becoming.

The creative part of me didn't disappear when I became a mother.

She just needs care too.

Maybe self-care isn't always bubble baths and long mornings alone.

Maybe it's getting dressed.

Maybe it's making the tea.

Maybe it's opening the sketchbook for ten minutes.

Maybe it's sitting at the dining table, writing down the thoughts that feel too heavy to carry alone.

Because at the end of the day, I am still the creator of my story.

And I'm learning that taking care of myself isn't selfish.

It's how I keep creating a life I want to be present for.

There’s something about slow afternoons at home that makes me want to hold onto time a little longer.

The light filters gently through the windows, the house grows quieter, and somehow the ordinary begins to feel extraordinary.

These are the afternoons I find myself wanting to remember—not because anything remarkable happened, but because everything felt exactly as it was meant to.

Lately, many of those afternoons have been spent in the kitchen.

Not because we needed to bake.

Simply because it gave us a reason to slow down together.

An Afternoon in the Kitchen

The recipe is almost beside the point.

It's the flour scattered across the countertop, the bowls waiting to be mixed, and the warmth that slowly fills the room before anything has even gone into the oven.

There’s something comforting about moving slowly, measuring ingredients without rushing, and letting the afternoon unfold one step at a time.

In a season where so much of life feels busy, baking has become a quiet invitation to pause.

Not to accomplish something.

Just to be here.

Little Hands and Lasting Memories

The sweetest part isn't what comes out of the oven.

It's watching my toddler reach for the measuring cups with such determination, carefully pouring ingredients that rarely land exactly where they're supposed to.

It's the tiny fingerprints left in the flour, the laughter after making another mess, and the excitement that comes from simply being included.

These moments remind me that children aren't looking for perfect afternoons.

They're looking for us.

Present.

Patient.

Together.

Motherhood has a gentle way of teaching me that the moments I try least to control are often the ones that become my favorites.

Keeping It Simple

I've learned that meaningful memories rarely require elaborate plans.

Sometimes all they need is a simple recipe, a quiet afternoon, and the willingness to put everything else on pause for a little while.

The kitchen doesn't have to be spotless.

The cookies don't have to look bakery-perfect.

The afternoon doesn't need to follow a schedule.

There is beauty in the mess.

There is joy in taking our time.

And there is something deeply comforting about creating with our hands instead of rushing through another day.

The Kind of Afternoon I Hope We Remember

Years from now, I don't know if either of us will remember exactly what we baked.

We'll probably forget the recipe.

We may not remember whether the cookies browned a little too much or if flour somehow found its way onto every surface in the kitchen.

But I hope we remember how it felt.

The quiet sunlight pouring through the windows.

The warmth of the oven filling our home.

Little hands covered in flour reaching for mine.

The laughter between the pauses.

The feeling that, for one gentle afternoon, nowhere else in the world mattered.

These ordinary days are passing more quickly than I realize.

And while I can't hold onto every moment, I can choose to be present for them.

Because I have a feeling these are the kinds of afternoons we'll carry with us long after the kitchen has been cleaned and the cookies are gone.

These are the kind of afternoons I hope we remember.

And then some days feel like you’ve poured so much out, there’s nothing left to return to yourself.

Somewhere between the routines, the noise, and the constant giving…

you realize you haven’t checked in with you in a while.

Not in a big, life-changing way.

But in the smallest, quietest moments.

This is where a soft dopamine menu comes in.

Not something structured.

Not something to perfect.

Just a gentle list of things that bring you back to yourself—slowly, softly, without pressure.

Because sometimes, you don’t need a full reset.

You just need a moment.

What is a Soft Dopamine Menu?

It’s a collection of simple, comforting things you can turn to when you need to feel like yourself again.

Not the version of you that’s doing everything for everyone else—

but the version of you that still exists underneath it all.

Think of it as a quiet permission slip

to pause… without needing a reason.

A Soft Dopamine Menu for Moms:

These aren’t big plans.

They’re small moments that hold you.

• wrapping yourself in a blanket in the middle of the day

• drinking your coffee while it’s still warm

• sitting in silence for a few minutes longer than usual

• opening a window and letting fresh air move through your space

• rewatching something familiar and comforting

• writing a few thoughts down without overthinking them

• stepping outside, even if it’s just for a minute

• lighting a candle in the middle of an ordinary day

• doing nothing… and not rushing to fill the space

Why this matters

Motherhood can make everything feel like it has to be productive.

Even rest can start to feel like something you have to earn.

But the truth is—

you don’t need to wait until everything is done to take care of yourself.

You’re allowed to exist in the in-between.

In the quiet moments.

In the pause.

In the soft spaces that don’t ask anything from you.

Coming back to yourself

You don’t have to become someone new.

You don’t have to find a completely different version of yourself.

Sometimes, it’s just about returning.

Returning to the things that feel familiar.

The things that feel gentle.

The things that remind you—you’re still here.

Still you.

Still whole.

Still becoming, in your own time.

A gentle reminder:

Maybe today, it looks like sitting on the couch a little longer.

A warm drink in your hands.

A quiet room around you.

Not doing anything extraordinary.

Just choosing, for a moment,

to come back to yourself.

Some moments are spontaneous.

Others are gently arranged — not to make them something they aren’t, but to make sure they’re remembered.

We were in his room — a familiar, everyday space. I wanted to document it with care. Him walking away. Walking back toward me. Reaching out with whatever he happened to be holding. Moments paused long enough to be noticed. Memories distilled into lines.

Illustration allows me to keep what mattered — not to recreate the past, but to honor the growth within it.

He was just over a year old. Only by a few days.

I had noticed how much stronger he had become. How comfortable he was moving on his own. So I asked my husband to take photos of us together — interacting the way we always do. I wanted to capture this stage clearly, knowing how quickly it passes.

From that set of images, one stayed with me.

He’s standing in front of me, handing me a wooden block. A small, ordinary exchange — and yet it held so much of who he was becoming, and who I was becoming alongside him.

When I returned to the image, I illustrated the moment the way I always do — reducing it to its essentials: gesture, proximity, connection. The flowers beneath us represent growth — quiet, steady, unfolding — a visual way of holding the season we were in.

These illustrated stories are artifacts of my life. They are fragments of motherhood.

Photography shows me what happened.

This piece holds the memory of him learning to walk — and me learning how fleeting these early days are. How even the moments we carefully document eventually become something we reach for later.

This is the work I return to.

Not to recreate the past,

but to hold what it taught me.

February · Softness · Identity · Rest

There was a time when creativity wasn’t optional in my life.

It was my major.
My discipline.
My language.

I studied Fine Arts in college, with minors in education and graphic design. Art wasn’t just something I enjoyed — it was how I understood the world. How I processed it. How I expressed who I was becoming.

Creation felt natural then. Required, even.

Somewhere along the way, that rhythm grew quieter.

When Creativity Became Quiet

After moving to Pittsburgh, life shifted in ways I didn’t fully anticipate.

Then motherhood reshaped everything again.

I closed my graphic design business. I stepped fully into being a stay-at-home mom. My days are centered around nurturing, tending, holding, teaching, cleaning, cooking, and remembering everyone else’s needs.

It is good.
It is meaningful.
It is holy work in its own quiet way.

It is also consuming.

Art didn’t disappear — it just grew quiet.

Not because I stopped loving it.
But because survival seasons don’t always leave room for softness.

Starting Again — Imperfectly

Last year, I began carving small pockets of time for myself.

Not hours.
Not elaborate projects.

Just small returns.

A sketch while dinner simmered.
An idea written down before bed.
Paper spread across the table during a quiet afternoon.

I don’t do it perfectly.
I don’t do it as often as I would like.

But something has blossomed in that space.

Not in productivity.
In presence.

Creativity has become less about output and more about grounding. Less about proving and more about remembering.

It steadies me.

It reconnects me to the part of myself that existed before roles and responsibilities multiplied.

Maybe you feel that too — that quiet distance from who you used to be. Not lost. Just layered beneath everything else.

Creativity as Care

A routine.
A reset day.
A perfectly protected block of time.

But creativity has shown me another way.

Care can be ten quiet minutes.
Care can be drawing without a plan.
Care can be allowing something to unfold slowly.

When I sit down to create, even briefly, I feel myself expand instead of contract.

It reminds me that I am not only a caregiver — I am also a creator.

That remembering is powerful.

Creativity as care is bigger than surface-level self-care.

It’s me trying to find myself back — piece by piece.

You don’t have to be an artist to return to yourself. Maybe for you it’s journaling. Baking slowly. Rearranging a shelf. Planting something small. The form doesn’t matter. The remembering does.

When Care Becomes Vision

What if the space that has helped me reconnect could exist on paper for other mothers, too?

Not something loud.
Not something trend-driven.

But slow, intentional coloring page sets — and later, coloring books.

Emotion-led.
Gentle.
Rooted in growth.

Florals emerging from stillness.
Soft figures at rest.
Moments where nothing is performative.

Each set is small. Unhurried. Four or five pages at a time. Something a mother could print, sit with, and return to.

Right now, it’s still early. I’ve drawn two pieces. That’s it.

And I’m letting that be enough.

Because this idea didn’t come from pressure. It came from care.

From understanding how easy it is to feel unseen in motherhood. How rare it can be to have five quiet minutes that belong only to you.

If creativity has given me back pieces of myself, even imperfectly, maybe these coloring page sets — and eventually, full coloring books — can offer that same gentle return to someone else.

Not as productivity.
Not as performance.

But as presence.

Coming Back Softly

This season doesn’t require spectacle.

It doesn’t require scale.

It only asks for gentleness.

So I’m protecting small creative pockets.
I’m honoring the ideas that surface slowly.
I’m allowing growth to happen quietly.

And maybe that’s what creativity as care really is.

Not building something impressive.

But coming back to yourself.

Softly. 🤍