The Art of Being Human

Creativity as quiet revolution

I see so much beauty and importance in the work I create when I'm snuggled up to my kids or typing away at my computer. But sometimes, when I look up and out at the world… I question it. What does it all matter when all of this (waves hands around furiously) is happening. It's happened to me many times during book launches. And this time is no different. What's changed for me, though, is the widened perspective I have on how we can hold love and despair together in our hands at the same time. We can ache to do something and also find comfort in eating and fueling our bodies. Our hearts can break for those most vulnerable, and we can allow songs to move us to new places of hope.

I guess what I'm saying is beautiful work flows from hearts that are cared for, bodies that are nourished, and minds that are focused on hope.

In times that feel increasingly fragmented and fraught, I've been thinking about art and self-love as resistance. Cooking too, of course. Not necessarily the kind that involves megaphones and marches (though there is certainly a time and place for that), but the quiet, persistent kind that happens in our homes, our kitchens, our gardens, our offices.

The kind that happens when we choose to be fully human in a world that often asks us to be less.

The Revolutionary Act of Presence

There's something radical about being present. About choosing to engage deeply with the world around us rather than numbing out or rushing through. When I knead cookie dough with my hands, feeling the transformation from sticky mess to silky dough, I am practicing presence. When I sink into a midday nap with complete surrender, I am resisting the constant productivity demands of our culture.

These aren't insignificant acts. In a society that values output above all else, choosing rest becomes a statement.

Creating as Claiming Space

When I draw, even if it's just doodling in margins of my planner during a meeting, I am claiming space. When I sing in the shower without worrying how I sound, I am claiming my voice. When I cook a meal—chopping vegetables with care, tasting and adjusting seasonings, setting the table with intention—I am nurturing myself and others in ways that matter deeply.

These creative acts may seem small, but they help us remember who we are beyond our roles as workers, consumers, or scrollers. They remind us that we are sensory beings capable of making beauty, experiencing pleasure, and connecting authentically. Truth be told, I think these things make us better humans.

The Politics of Joy

Let me be clear: finding moments of joy is not about ignoring the difficult realities of our world. It's not about toxic positivity or burying our heads in the sand.

Rather, it's about remembering what we're fighting for.

When we drive with the windows down and watch our dogs' ears flap in the wind, when we hold hands with someone we love, when we take the time to really taste our food—we are experiencing the very freedom and aliveness that we want for everyone.

Resistance Through Connection

I believe we're living through a time of increasing disconnection—from our bodies, from nature, from each other. The forces dividing us seem to grow stronger daily. That's why I see radical potential in the simple act of connecting: with ourselves, with others, with the material world.

When we put our phones down and really listen to each other's stories.

When we notice the changing seasons, the slight drop in temperature.

When we cook and share meals together.

These connections form the foundation of any meaningful resistance or change.

Creating Without Permission

In a world where so much feels out of our control, creating something—anything—reminds us of our agency. We don't need credentials or permission to make art. We don't need to be "good" at it. The simple act of bringing something new into being, whether it's a loaf of bread or a crayon drawing or a song hummed while washing dishes, is an assertion that we are here, that our expressions matter.

That assertion becomes especially powerful for those whose voices and experiences have been historically marginalized or silenced.

An Invitation

This isn't about adding more to your to-do list. It's not about becoming a professional artist or chef or singer. It's about finding those small moments where you can fully inhabit your humanity through creativity, rest, pleasure, and connection.

Maybe it's five minutes of reading while your coffee brews.

Maybe it's really tasting the first bite of your lunch instead of eating at your desk.

Maybe it's singing in your car to a song that moves you.

Whatever it is, I invite you to see these acts not as frivolous or selfish, but as essential forms of resistance against forces that would reduce us to mere consumers and producers.

I invite you to see your creativity—in all its forms—as a way of staying human in challenging times.

I invite you to rest when you need it, to make beautiful things simply because you can, to connect with others authentically, and to find moments of joy not despite our current reality, but because of it—because joy itself is worth fighting for.

What small acts of creative resistance have sustained you lately? I'd love to hear.

As for me, I’ll be in the kitchen all week if you need me. ❤️