The Rhythm of My Hands

Finding a Rhythm of Rest In My Creative Process

“Rest isn’t lazy. It’s the wisdom to pause before you break.”

Wood shavings curl gracefully on a rustic workbench, capturing the essence of traditional woodworking craftsmanship.

I used to believe rest was something you earned—after the to-do list was finished, the house was clean, and your inbox was down to zero.

The problem?

My to-do list never ended.

My house never stayed clean.

And my inbox? Ummm, yeah…moving on….

For a long time, I treated rest like a destination—somewhere I’d get to eventually, if I just worked hard enough. I thought if I could just catch up, then I’d deserve to breathe.

But "catching up" never came. There was always one more thing. And in the name of being “productive,” I ignored the one thing I actually needed: space.

What I didn’t understand then—but know now—is that rest isn’t a reward.

It’s a rhythm.

And for me, I didn’t find that rhythm in stillness.

I found it with my hands.

There’s something sacred that happens when you sketch out the picture in your head. When you run sandpaper across raw wood. When you’re standing in your garage or kitchen or backyard, staring at your half-finished project, thinking, “I have no idea what I’m doing,” but feeling strangely okay about it.

Creating gave me something I hadn’t even realized I’d lost: a way to return to myself.

It slowed me down in a way nothing else could.

It gave my anxious mind something safe to focus on.

It brought my breath back down into my body.

And slowly—without fanfare—I learned how to be still. While still moving.

This is the part no one really talks about when they mention healing.

It doesn’t always look like bubble baths or journaling under twinkle lights. Or eating ice cream drenched in salted caramel.

Sometimes it looks like losing track of time in your garage, covered in sawdust and old t-shirts you meant to donate.

We talk about “mindfulness” like it’s some elite retreat practice, but maybe it’s closer than we think. Maybe it’s already in the drawer with your paintbrushes. Maybe it’s on that shelf in the garage with the forgotten scraps of wood. Maybe it’s in the rhythm of your own hands—when you let yourself create without judgment, without a plan, without needing it to be perfect.

Because here’s the thing. My mind didn’t know how to rest.

But my hands did.

And they led the way.

So if you're feeling scattered, strung-out or stuck, try starting with your hands.

Make something ugly. Make something weird. Make something you.

It doesn't have to mean anything.

But it might mean everything.

It just might be the thing your system needs to know, the thing that you can’t tell it, only show it.

You are still here.

You are still healing.

And your hands remember the way back.