Grieving and my first real Artist Block

In a few days, it will be a year since my mother passed away.

Usually, when I look back over a year, I can point to an impressive pile of artworks and projects I’ve completed — even in the most challenging times: the year I had a child, the year I emigrated, the year I experienced burnout and took a sabbatical, or even the year I had a mental breakdown.

But this year — this first year of grief — has been different. My creative production has hit a staggeringly record low.

This made me wonder if, 15 years into my career, I am experiencing my first real case of artist’s block.

Fynch and Mom

Artist’s Breaks vs. Artist’s Block

I’ve had many “artist’s breaks” over the past decade and a half. Each one affected my productivity for different stretches of time. But even during those breaks, I always felt tethered to my creativity — like a sparkly, glittery thread kept me connected to the actualization of ideas.

This grief-induced block feels different. It feels like that thread has been ripped away.

When I take an artist’s break, there’s always a natural, organic pull back toward creating — like a water break during a marathon. But this time, it feels as if the longer I remain untethered, the less likely it is that I’ll simply “wake up” and feel like creating again.

It feels like there’s a decision to be made — and a tough one at that. To move forward, I wont just need inspiration but deliberate action and follow-through.

In some ways, all artist’s blocks feel like grief: a mourning for the temporary loss of your creative identity or ability. Grief is said to have five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

Full disclaimer: I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to grief. It’s a messy process that doesn’t tidy up neatly. But for the sake of this block post, let’s pretend I’m an expert on both grief and artist’s block. Cool? Cool.

Let me try to reattach these untethered, grieving parts of myself back to my creative wellspring by walking through these stages.

Denial

When the block first hit, denial was my knee-jerk reaction.

As a recovering workaholic, denial is easy for me to disguise as productivity. I just push through, forcing myself to create. So, when I felt this block settling over me, I explained it away by mechanically going through my creative routines — like my daily sketchbook practice.

I told myself: I’m not in the mood to work on that project that once kept me up at night with excitement, but that’s okay — I’m still sketching weird little cats in my sketchboo – so all good!

The truth? My creative energy dried up instantly. My enthusiasm vanished. I wasn’t creating in those sketchbooks — I was hiding in them.

Anger

I have felt anger this year in ways I never have before. Not in the way that makes me want to throw a plate against someone’s head, but in the way that sudden hot tears fall down my tears out of pure desperation and giving up. When I simply can’t hold it all together for another moment and I am so pissed that she died. Or so pissed that I haven’t finished a single artwork all year. The kind of anger that prances around like self-pity. Why me? Why did you have to leave me? Why is this happening to me? Why can’t I seem to get my act together and paint?

As a recovering workaholic, it felt like completely unfamiliar territory to simply exist without constantly trying to prove my worth through making and creating art. The alternating anger and apathy toward my work made me see myself differently, full of what I perceived to be failings in my personality. And of course, I had no tolerance for this, only festering self-disapproval and resentment.

Bargaining

Bargaining showed up in how I allowed myself to be sad and mourn. Whenever I cried, it was as if an hourglass appeared in my mind — a small trickle of sand, and then I’d force myself to close it off. A quick display of emotion, and then back to business.

With my art block, it felt similar. I would summon every ounce of energy just to sketch for an hour or two, hoping that this small act of productivity would entice my creativity to return. It didn’t.

I’ll give you a minute of crying, if you let this hurting stop

I’ll sit in my studio for an hour, if this sense of self-guilt and disappointment will go away

Depression

Depression is the lump in my throat that burns every time I try to swallow it.

It feels like my heart beats in rhythm — doof, doof, doof, doof — and then suddenly skips a beat — doof, doof — — doof. The silence between those beats disarms me, and in that space comes the painful realization:

She’s really gone.She’s not coming back.And I’m still here.

It’s the same with the art block. My creativity was here one day and gone the next, and I couldn’t do anything to bring it back — at least, not the way it once was. From one day to the next, something that was so naturally part of who I am and my everyday just was gone.

Acceptance

Well, fuck. This is it.

She died.I stopped making the art that mattered to me.And I don’t know how to move on from here. When my mom died, my therapist told me: “There was the Amy who had a mother, and now there is the Amy who doesn’t.” In the same way, there was Amy the thriving artist, and now there is Amy the blocked artist. Apparently, I have to accept that this is where I am right now. I’m supposed to “feel my feels,” “hold space” for my grief and creative block, and “sit with it,” staying present in the now.

But honestly, all of that just sounds like word salad to me. None of it feels like practical advice I can actually do something with. And maybe that’s because acceptance isn’t really an action—it’s a state of being.

AND !!! The thing this neat five-step grief model doesn’t tell you is that there are countless stages after “acceptance.”

Life goes on. Hearts keep beating — doof, doof, doof.

There is no guarantee that joy or rebirth comes next. You might swing back and forth between depression and anger long after you’ve “accepted” the loss.

What I do know is this: for me, it always comes back to community.

When I realised and accepted that I was in an artist’s block, the only thing that made sense was to reconnect deeply with the artists around me.

I have to trust that the magic I believe exists in these creative spaces will once again breathe life into my bones — and give me a reason to create.