I love this story, Jonathan. It made me feel emotional and then I remembered that once I did an art installation with a friend at a bookstore/coffee shop in Santa Cruz CA. I made a giant wreath and installed it on the ceiling. The owners of the establishment decided to purchase a few pieces from the installation, and the wreath was one of them. Years later, I was so touched when I met people who would tell me beautiful stories of things that happened to them under that wreath. I was so surprised that they would even think of it! One couple told me they fell in love under that wreath and another couple told me they signed the deal for their first house under that wreath.
That was almost 30 years ago and it’s a good reminder for me now. I make the things but I don’t often share them these days. I’ll take it as a sign.
Such a timely reminder. Thanks u. I've got stuck recently in a loop of gathering topics and drafts but publishing had dropped off. Your post clicked for me. I' realised ive got something more vulnerable that has been quietly waiting that has the real energy and emotion. I commit to putting pen to paper in my writing slot this week. Thank u. (Ps cool serendipity story as well)
I’ve lived my whole life in this space—where creation was present, but unnamed. Surrounded by those who didn’t know they were making anything at all. Beauty stitched into survival, invention mistaken for necessity. The act of creating was there, always, but it wore other clothes.

To be a creative in a land of not was…abrasive. Like humming in a room where silence is expected. Like reaching for colour in a family that speaks only in grey.

And still—three-year-old me, five-year-old me, twelve-year-old me—they’ve stayed. All of those versions I carry in this older version, this Kim who is learning that curiosity doesn’t always lead to danger. And that the voice I once mistook for protection—sharp, skeptical, afraid—can soften. Can become something more nurturing, less full of warning.

As I let curiosity lead, the fear doesn’t vanish, but it loses its grip. The voice quiets. The way forward feels…possible.
I create now not because I know it will land, but because I no longer know how not to. That’s the shift. It used to be a question—Will this matter? Will anyone care? Now it’s more like a pulse. A murmur beneath the skin. Something that insists: Make it anyway.
And while there are still days I wonder if I’m speaking into a void, something else has started to happen. A small comment. A message. A stranger who says, I felt that. These moments arrive like moths, soft-winged, surprising. I don’t expect them. I don’t plan for them. But when they come, I hold them close.
A woman I’ve never met wrote to say she’d read my words & wept—not because they were sad, but because they made her feel seen. Another said a line I’d almost deleted kept her company one afternoon when the world felt too loud. These aren’t grand gestures. They won’t fill a bank account. But they stitch something back together in me I hadn’t realised was fraying.
I love this story, Jonathan. It made me feel emotional and then I remembered that once I did an art installation with a friend at a bookstore/coffee shop in Santa Cruz CA. I made a giant wreath and installed it on the ceiling. The owners of the establishment decided to purchase a few pieces from the installation, and the wreath was one of them. Years later, I was so touched when I met people who would tell me beautiful stories of things that happened to them under that wreath. I was so surprised that they would even think of it! One couple told me they fell in love under that wreath and another couple told me they signed the deal for their first house under that wreath.
That was almost 30 years ago and it’s a good reminder for me now. I make the things but I don’t often share them these days. I’ll take it as a sign.
If we over plan,
how will synchronicity
find and surprise us?
...
If stuck in a rut,
how will serendipity
delight us, school us?
Such a timely reminder. Thanks u. I've got stuck recently in a loop of gathering topics and drafts but publishing had dropped off. Your post clicked for me. I' realised ive got something more vulnerable that has been quietly waiting that has the real energy and emotion. I commit to putting pen to paper in my writing slot this week. Thank u. (Ps cool serendipity story as well)
I’ve lived my whole life in this space—where creation was present, but unnamed. Surrounded by those who didn’t know they were making anything at all. Beauty stitched into survival, invention mistaken for necessity. The act of creating was there, always, but it wore other clothes.

To be a creative in a land of not was…abrasive. Like humming in a room where silence is expected. Like reaching for colour in a family that speaks only in grey.

And still—three-year-old me, five-year-old me, twelve-year-old me—they’ve stayed. All of those versions I carry in this older version, this Kim who is learning that curiosity doesn’t always lead to danger. And that the voice I once mistook for protection—sharp, skeptical, afraid—can soften. Can become something more nurturing, less full of warning.

As I let curiosity lead, the fear doesn’t vanish, but it loses its grip. The voice quiets. The way forward feels…possible.
I create now not because I know it will land, but because I no longer know how not to. That’s the shift. It used to be a question—Will this matter? Will anyone care? Now it’s more like a pulse. A murmur beneath the skin. Something that insists: Make it anyway.
And while there are still days I wonder if I’m speaking into a void, something else has started to happen. A small comment. A message. A stranger who says, I felt that. These moments arrive like moths, soft-winged, surprising. I don’t expect them. I don’t plan for them. But when they come, I hold them close.
A woman I’ve never met wrote to say she’d read my words & wept—not because they were sad, but because they made her feel seen. Another said a line I’d almost deleted kept her company one afternoon when the world felt too loud. These aren’t grand gestures. They won’t fill a bank account. But they stitch something back together in me I hadn’t realised was fraying.
Hhh