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I built my website to create visibility—for my paintings, my writings, my felt pieces, my thoughts. It was a necessary step, I believed, to claim space as an artist in a world that rewards presence and polish.

And yet, since building it, something has shifted.

I find myself painting more, yes—but felting less.

Not because I’ve stopped loving the process, but because it asks for more than I currently have to give.

Felt-making isn’t like brushing birds on paper in the morning light. It’s slow, physical, layered. It needs hours, solitude, rhythm. It needs me—fully.

But lately, a large part of me is somewhere else: in my dashboard, in my plugins, in blog drafts and image resizing and meta descriptions.

The very tool I created to share my creative world has started to reshape it.

I am not angry. Not even frustrated.

Only aware.

There’s a fine line between curating one’s world and beginning to curate one’s thoughts.

Between showing the work and letting the showing become the work.

And somewhere in that shift, I’ve started to feel a dimming in the part of me that once created without needing to explain.

It’s not a dramatic crisis. It’s a soft fading.

And I know myself well enough to trust this moment—to step back without stepping away.

To let the site breathe without letting it speak over me.

Because I don’t want to lose that original flame, the silent source of my making.

The part of me that works without witnessing.

The part that creates not to be seen, but to feel alive.

So today, I return to my wool. To the slow rhythm of stitching. To a process that demands time and gives me back something websites cannot:

stillness.