Hello Reader,
All my life I’ve written about home. Some version of home, both literal and metaphorical, always finds its way into my work, into the way I support writers, and into how I show up for myself. Home, for me, is a place where I feel like I can fully be myself, where I can be energized by all the things I’ve chosen to bring into it and what I decide to close the door on. A place where I can breathe.
I came across a line in Right at Home (a design book, because I try to read outside my comforts) that immediately resonated. It made me think about how deeply we feel the presence, or absence, of home. I know the anxiety that comes from not having one. I know what it’s like to live day by day, to go without, to carry that constant undercurrent of worry especially as a child, and into young adulthood.
“Sometimes not having something is what brings you clarity on what having it really means.”—Bobby Berk
Yes.
And on the flip side I also know the moments when I could finally exhale. The moments when I felt safe, settled, even if just for a little while. Those moments always had something in common: I had made a space for myself that only I could have made. It might’ve been something small and random like my high school locker in the 90's, covered in posters torn from teen magazines. Or a notebook set up with my specific headers and colours, ready to hold my thoughts exactly as they came. Small things, maybe, but they were mine. They were a kind of home.
Home can be complicated for a lot of us. Partly because we’re measuring it against what we think it’s supposed to be. Against what we see other people sharing. Someone else’s version, someone else’s aesthetic, someone else’s story. We do this all the time and it’s totally understandable since we live in a world where with the flick of a device we can see into everyone’s living room.
But my living room is another piece of home, and what I allow in, determines my safety, how I feel, and … what I create. In learning this, I've been steadily saying no to things, people, places, and decisions that threaten my home.
Where, when, how, and with whom you share matters. These Say No With Love letters feel like a kind of home to me—that’s why I open up more fully here than I would on something like Instagram, where you might just get a small peek. It's aligned decision-making at work.
Lately, I’ve been reading about the brain, the body, how everything is connected. And of course, I can’t help but see the metaphor. The body is a home, too. Nothing in it exists in isolation. Every organ, every system, every signal is in conversation with something else. That’s how the body tries to stay balanced and alive. And when we struggle or hit a health snag, it’s often a sign that something has lost that connection … that one part is no longer in sync with the rest.
And it made me realize something about creative work.
I say this all the time now: my creative practice isn’t separate from my life. It’s part of the whole system. It’s connected, like a nerve, like an artery feeding and being fed by everything else. My daily work connects to my physical health, connects to my time (or lack thereof) with friends, which connects to finances, which connects to everything else. It’s all connected. So why do we treat it like it lives outside of us? Like it’s optional, or extra, or something we visit when we have time?
What would it mean to make a home inside of your creative practice?
When I was young (as early as 6 or 7), I used to piece together full meals out of almost nothing. Flour, a box of Hamburger Helper or Kraft Dinner, some frozen corn … whatever I could find. My brother was always so impressed haha! It wasn’t much, so I had to get creative. I didn’t have many options as a kid who had to be an adult so early, but I learned how to make something good out of what was there.
Looking back, I think that’s where it started for me.
I learned early that waiting passively for better conditions (or leaning on excuses) wasn’t going to help me build the kind of home I was dreaming of.
Friends, please be okay with this not being easy. It’s just not going to be.
I help people build that kind of home in their creative lives. One where you start to recognize what you already have, learn how to value it, and find new ways to use the things you might’ve dismissed or set aside. The “garage sale” parts of your creative life that still have something to offer.
Building something that feels like home takes time. Attention. Trial and error. Honesty. There’s no shortcut. But there are ways to begin seeing differently, to widen what feels possible.
This summer, I’m facilitating a 5-day retreat at Hollyhock. It’s centered around starting this work gently, thoughtfully. It’s not a magic fix by any means. But it is a place to begin. A place to spend time with yourself and your creative life in a deeper way.
Later this year, I’ll be sharing more about a group program I’ve been building—one that focuses on your creative ecosystem and helps you understand the pieces that make up your version of a full, supported creative life.
I’ll share more soon, including stories from my past—like the time in my late 20's when I convinced border protection to let my friend cross the border when they were about to be denied entry (for some silly reason), and how twelve years in a high-volume coffee shop sharpened my ability to navigate high-stress situations (these stories are honestly pretty hilarious).
All of it ties back to what I call your “creative net worth”—the lived skills, instincts, and experiences that shape how you move through your creative work. In today's wold, pinning these situations to actual skills is pivotal. I've said that for years.
This is a program I’ve been building toward my whole life without even realizing it. So stay tuned.
But for now, I’m thinking about the retreat.
It’s really about getting to know yourself again. What you want. What you need. What you already carry. Because that metaphorical dream home is going to be built from materials only you have. So let’s figure out what those materials are.
There are spots left, and I’d love to fill seven more. If you’re curious about what the five days look like, just reply and ask me your questions. And if you’re looking for specific accommodations, the Hollyhock team can help you find what works best.
The way your home makes you feel matters.
The world can be loud. Abrasive. Demanding.
And still, you can create a sense of home within it.
I think about my five-year-old self, who believed that without question. She did not let her world at the time blur her view. She wrapped her arms around a dream and said, "Let's do this."
When you think about your dream home, metaphorical or literal … what’s in it?
with love, Chelene
Founder, Breathing Space Creative
Reflect + Rewrite
This Week's Reflection Question: When you think about your dream home, metaphorical or literal … what’s in it?
After answering the reflection question, revisit what you wrote.
Is there a single line—just one—that surprised you?
Maybe it stirred something. Maybe it made you pause.
Copy that line out. Sit with it.
As always, if you feel called, I’d love to see it. Hit reply and share it with me.
