Sunday Chapters – Life Between the Lines: The Art of Returning.

“Creativity isn’t constant—it’s cyclical. And returning is an art of its own.”

Welcome back to Sunday Chapters, my weekly essay series from the in-between spaces—the quiet corners of life where meaning hides between to-do lists, tea refills, and half-finished dreams. This series, Life Between the Lines, is my way of sharing reflections on writing, creativity, and the rhythms of a well-lived life.

Last week’s post, “Becoming the Story,” explored what happens when you stop chasing the perfect narrative and realize you are the story worth telling. Today, we continue with a softer truth, one I’ve lived again and again: the sacred, subtle art of returning.

Because no matter how deep the detour, how long the pause, or how foggy the path—creativity waits for us. Not impatiently, but faithfully. Like the tide, it goes out and comes back. And when we return, something inside us begins to rise too.

I’ve always loved a good comeback story. Maybe it’s the romantic in me, or the part that believes in second (and seventh) chances. Life doesn’t unfold in straight lines. It spirals. It circles. It dances forward, backward, then sideways when you least expect it.

I used to think falling off the creative rhythm meant I had failed. I’d be rolling along—writing daily, dreaming wildly, feeling lit up by the work—and then… poof. Real life would swoop in: a sick kid, a messy house, a stretch of doubt so thick I could barely breathe through it. And just like that, I’d drift. The words would stop. The sparkle would dim. I’d start to wonder if it was ever real at all.

But with time—and a lot of tea and rereads of my favorite books—I’ve learned the truth: drifting isn’t the end of the story. It’s part of the journey.

When you walk through fear, you learn how to honor the silence and the stillness, trusting that even in the darkness, something sacred is gathering. We have to remind ourselves that art lives in repetition, in ritual. And most importantly, in returning.

Because when we do return—when we come back to the page, the brush, the garden, the quiet—we find our rhythm still there, waiting. Maybe it’s a little dusty. Maybe it hums a different tune. But it knows us. It remembers. And it welcomes us back like an old friend who never stopped believing.

This past month, I found myself floating again. The schedule slipped. My son needed more of me. A few “nos” knocked the wind from my sails. I was spinning plates and losing pieces of myself in the spin. The page felt far away.

But then came a small moment.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just a rainy morning, a warm mug, and five minutes of quiet while the world still slept. I lit a candle. I picked up my notebook. No pressure. No goal. Just… a breath. A sentence. A seed.

And that’s all it took.

That first page back wasn’t brilliant. The handwriting was shaky. But it cracked something open. Like sunlight sneaking through the clouds, a little part of me exhaled. I didn’t need to restart the race. I just needed to return.

Since then, I’ve been leaning into a gentler rhythm. Not the sprint I once demanded of myself, but a slower, steadier beat. Morning pages. Walks without audiobooks. Journaling before bed. Even 15 minutes on a draft counts. Especially 15 minutes- Hello Mel Robbins and your wise words of doing the reps every day!!!

Because here’s what I’ve learned: returning doesn’t have to be loud or grand or perfect. It just has to be true.

I think of routines now as my soul’s scaffolding. Not restrictions, but invitations. I keep a little tray beside my desk: a crystal, a pen I love, a tiny seashell from a family beach day. Rituals don’t have to be big to be powerful. They just have to feel like you.

I light a candle before I write. I stretch for two minutes. I whisper (yes, whisper): “Let’s see what happens.” And that’s enough.

Every time I return, I’m a little different. A little braver. A little softer. A little more myself.

There’s a tenderness to this kind of living. A knowing that we won’t always be on. That energy flows, life changes, the muse sometimes packs her bags and disappears for weeks. But when we treat the return as holy—not shameful, not overdue, but sacred—we unlock something real.

We remind ourselves: this is who I am. A creator. A dreamer. A woman who may wander, but always finds her way back.

And maybe that’s the magic of it. That creativity doesn’t punish us for pausing. It rewards us for remembering.

So if you’ve drifted—if you’ve been spinning or hiding or forgetting what makes you feel—this is your gentle invitation.

You don’t have to wait for a sign. This is it.

You don’t have to catch up. Just begin.

You don’t have to do it perfectly. You never did.

Pour the tea. Light the candle. Sit with yourself. And return.

Because you, dear one, are the art.

And the act of coming home to your creative heart? That’s the bravest, most beautiful chapter yet.

Until next time…
May your Sundays be unhurried, your reflections gentle, and your heart open to the stories still waiting to unfold.

I’ll meet you again between the lines.

Love,
Emma 🌿✨