A young person can find inspiration in anything. A crumpled leaf on a rainy sidewalk becomes the setting for an epic tale. A few stray notes hummed in the shower transform into a song, a fleeting thought becomes a poem, a blank page an adventure. Creativity flows freely, unburdened by expectation or self-judgment.
But time is not always kind to this playful spirit. As we grow older, the world makes demands of us — duties pile up, responsibilities stretch out endlessly, and the once-abundant hours spent tinkering, sketching, or daydreaming are swallowed by obligations. Even in moments of stillness, our minds buzz with tasks left undone, emails unanswered, and bills unpaid. The spark that once leapt eagerly between ideas begins to flicker, until one day we realise it has gone almost entirely dark.
It's a slow process, hardly noticeable at first. We stop doodling in the margins of our notebooks. We put down the guitar and promise ourselves we'll pick it up again next weekend. Ideas come to us, but we dismiss them before they've had a chance to grow roots — "Who has time for that?" or "What's the point?" Slowly, our imagination begins to atrophy, like a muscle long left unused.
It's not that the capacity for creativity disappears — it's simply neglected. Neural pathways that once sparked and danced with connections grow quieter, less travelled. And yet, the ache remains. The desire to create something — anything — sits quietly in the background, waiting for us to notice it again.
There's a unique sadness in realising this has happened, a sense of loss that's difficult to articulate. It's not the loss of a tangible thing, but the loss of a way of being. A way of seeing the world that once made every moment feel ripe with potential. It's the sadness of remembering how effortlessly ideas used to come, and how distant that ease now feels.
And so we sit, perhaps on the sofa with our dog curled at our feet, scrolling through decade-old notes in Evernote or rifling through dusty journals. We look for fragments of ideas — unfinished stories, sketches of inventions, half-written poems. We search for proof that the spark once existed, and perhaps, hope to find embers still glowing faintly in the ashes.
Sometimes, we do find them. A line scribbled in haste ten years ago suddenly feels electric again. A half-finished melody begins to hum in our minds. But more often, the search is bittersweet, a reminder of a self that feels out of reach.
Yet, it's in these moments of quiet searching that something becomes clear: the ember is still there. Our brains, despite years of neglect, remain capable of change, growth, and creativity. Neuroplasticity, the brain's remarkable ability to adapt and rewire itself, doesn't vanish with age — it simply requires effort, intention, and, perhaps most importantly, playfulness.
The beauty of the human mind is that it's never truly fixed. We can still reawaken dormant pathways, still coax old sparks back into flame. It requires a willingness to embrace imperfection and to show up, again and again, for our creative selves.
But it also requires courage. Creativity is inherently vulnerable. It asks us to show up in ways that might feel silly or unproductive. It asks us to write bad poems, to draw wonky sketches, to sing songs out of tune. It asks us to play without a guarantee of success.
There's a quote I often return to, attributed to Ursula K. Le Guin: "The creative adult is the child who survived." And isn't that true? The creativity of youth isn't lost entirely — it's simply buried beneath layers of fear, self-criticism, and the dull hum of adult responsibilities.
The path back to creativity doesn't have to be grand. It doesn't have to be a perfectly plotted return to artistic mastery. It can start with something small — a ten-minute sketch in a notebook, a quiet morning spent journaling, or an evening walk where you let your mind wander freely.
If we're lucky, creativity will meet us halfway. The brain, ever-plastic and malleable, will start building new pathways. The act of making something — truly anything — becomes less foreign. Ideas start to visit us again, shy at first, then bold and eager.
And perhaps, in time, we'll remember what it felt like to be swept up in an idea. To lose track of time while writing, painting, or inventing. To feel that heady rush of making.
But even if that full spark never fully returns, the act of trying matters. Because creativity, at its heart, isn't about producing masterpieces — it's about connection. Connection to ourselves, to the world, and to that deeper, quieter part of our minds where ideas wait patiently to be noticed.
So here's my promise to myself: not to create something perfect, nor to measure my worth by the output of my creative efforts. But to show up. To let my imagination stumble and trip and, occasionally, soar. To notice the world again — not just skim across its surface, but really notice it.
Our brains remain capable. The spark can still be rekindled. And while the process might feel slow and uncertain, it's worth every imperfect step. Not because the world demands it, but because something deep within us needs it.
Because the spark, faint though it may be, is still there. Waiting.