Following the Thread

Following the Thread

The other day I found a box of leather offcuts.

Just scraps really. Pieces left over from projects I made years ago. The sort of thing most people would probably throw away without a second thought.

I almost did the same.

But then I picked one up.

Turned it over in my hands.

And for the first time in over a year, I felt something I haven't felt in a very long time.

Curiosity.

It wasn't a huge rush of inspiration. It wasn't one of those movie moments where everything suddenly clicks into place. It was much quieter than that.

Just a tiny little spark.

A thought that whispered, "What if?"

It caught me completely off guard.

Because the truth is, I haven't created with leather in over a year.

Not because I stopped loving it.

Not because I thought I'd outgrown it.

And definitely not because I ran out of ideas.

I just... stopped.

For a long time I couldn't really explain why.

I'd walk past my supplies and feel nothing.

I'd see other makers creating beautiful things and think, "Maybe I should make something."

But "should" never became "want."

The desire just wasn't there.

I've realised now that it wasn't creative block in the way people usually talk about it.

It was grief.

When my Dad died, everything changed.

People often think grief is just sadness, but for me it was so much bigger than that. It was exhaustion. Brain fog. Going through the motions. Forgetting things. Crying in the car. Smiling when I needed to and then falling apart when I got home.

It was surviving.

And surviving doesn't leave much room for creating.

When you're trying to make it through each day, your brain isn't wandering off dreaming about colours, textures or new ideas. It isn't asking, "What could I make?"

It's asking much smaller questions.

Have I eaten today?

Did I answer that email?

Can I get through work?

Can I make dinner?

Can I get everyone where they need to be?

Can I get through another anniversary?

Can I make it to tomorrow?

For months, that's where my energy went.

I think I kept waiting for creativity to come back the way it had always been before.

Like someone would flick a switch.

One day I'd wake up and suddenly feel inspired again.

But healing doesn't work like that.

Neither does creativity.

The funny thing is, over the past year I have been creating.

Just differently.

I poured everything I had into my artwork.

Into the candle collection.

Into slowing down enough to only make things that genuinely meant something to me.

That was a huge shift.

For years I felt caught in that cycle so many small business owners know well the pressure to always be releasing something new, chasing the algorithm, creating content, making products because you feel like you should.

This past year changed that.

Not because I suddenly became disciplined.

Because grief stripped away everything that wasn't important.

It made me ask questions I'd never really asked before.

Why am I making this?

Do I actually want to create it?

Or do I just feel like I have to?

I promised myself that if I was going to keep creating, it had to come from somewhere real.

No more forcing ideas.

No more creating just to keep up.

No more making something because it might sell if it doesn't feel like me.

That promise has changed everything.

So when I found those little leather scraps the other day, I didn't immediately think about products.

I didn't think about launches.

I didn't think about collections or sales.

I just wondered.

What could this become?

It's such a small thing, but after more than a year of not wanting to touch leather at all, that question felt enormous.

I realised I missed the process.

The feel of the material.

The way different textures sit together.

The layers.

The smell.

The tiny details that most people never notice but makers obsess over.

Maybe that's what I've been missing all along.

Not making products.

Making for the joy of making.

There's something incredibly freeing about not knowing where this little spark will lead.

Maybe nowhere.

Maybe I'll make one pair of earrings and realise that's enough.

Maybe it turns into something completely unexpected.

Maybe it becomes a new collection six months from now.

I honestly don't know.

And for once, I'm okay with not knowing.

I'm learning to trust those quiet moments instead of waiting for some giant wave of inspiration.

Maybe creativity isn't something that comes crashing back into our lives.

Maybe it returns the same way healing does.

Slowly.

Quietly.

One tiny moment at a time.

One conversation.

One walk.

One painting.

One laugh that catches you by surprise.

One morning where you realise you didn't feel quite as heavy.

One little leather offcut sitting in the palm of your hand.

People often talk about "finding yourself again" after loss.

I don't think that's quite right.

I don't think we go back to who we were before.

Grief changes us.

It changes the way we see the world.

The things we value.

The things we're willing to spend our energy on.

The people we become.

I'm not trying to get back to the Nikki I was before my Dad died.

She doesn't exist anymore.

Instead, I'm getting to know the version of me that's here now.

The one who's a little softer.

A little slower.

A little more protective of her creativity.

The one who's finally learning that rest isn't laziness, and creating doesn't have to be productive to be worthwhile.

If those little leather scraps become something, I'll share them.

If they don't, that's okay too.

Because I think they were already enough.

They reminded me that after all this time, there's still a spark.

It's small.

It's quiet.

But it's there.

And for now, that's enough.

I'm simply going to follow the thread and see where it takes me.