Making a Life: Healthy Habits and Creativity Clashing and Coexisting
The Maker’s Dilemma
Some days, I feel like making is the thing that keeps me going. It gets me out of bed when nothing else will. The idea of bringing something into the world with my own hands -something real, something useful, something beautiful - gives shape to days that might otherwise blur together. It’s not just a hobby, and it’s definitely not just work. It’s part of how I understand myself.
But if I’m being honest, it’s also one of the hardest things to make time for.
Between work, family, and the numerous little demands that accumulate throughout the week, finding time to create can feel like trying to hold onto water. I steal hours late at night or squeeze projects into lunch breaks or school pickups. And when I do finally find a rhythm, it often comes at the cost of something else - sleep, meals, exercise, stillness. The very habits we’re told to build for a healthy life.
It’s a strange contradiction: making brings energy and purpose, yet the life I’m building around it often feels stretched thin. I’ve come to realize that staying “healthy” as a maker means something different than what you read in wellness articles or see on social media. It’s less about perfection and more about persistence. It’s about figuring out how to keep showing up to the bench or the sketchbook without burning out in the process.
This is an attempt to make sense of that tension - to reflect on what a healthy creative life looks like, and how we might build one without losing ourselves along the way.
Making as Movement and Mindfulness
When people think about health, they often picture gyms or running shoes. But I’d argue that a lot of makers are doing a form of movement every time they show up at their workspace. There’s a rhythm to it: standing, lifting, shaping, sanding, finishing. Each gesture is part of a quiet choreography that works your body in ways a desk never could.
Some of the most physically intense days I’ve had weren’t in a gym - they were in my shop. Carrying lumber. Bending wood. Holding awkward angles while something sets or dries. It’s a workout, even if no one’s tracking the calories burned.
But beyond that, there’s the mental stillness that comes with making. When I’m deeply focused - when sanding a piece to its final smoothness, for instance - thoughts slow down. The noise fades. I stop refreshing my email. I stop worrying about what’s next. It’s not passive rest, but it is a kind of rest. Its presence.
In that way, making is a form of mindfulness. It demands attention. It asks you to be here, now. And when I’m lucky, it gives back more than I put in.
The Irony: When Creativity Crowds Out Care
But here’s the catch - what gives me energy can also take it away.
Because let’s be real: creativity doesn’t always fit neatly into the rest of life. Especially when you’re juggling a full-time job, parenting, relationships, errands, and just trying to be a halfway decent human. There are only so many hours in the day, and sometimes, creativity gets squeezed into the corners - late at night, early in the morning, or sandwiched between Zoom calls.
And that’s where it gets tricky. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve skipped meals, ignored back pain, or shrugged off exhaustion just to finish one more thing. It starts small. You tell yourself, “I’ll eat after I get this design done.” “I’ll stretch after I finish these cuts.” “I’ll sleep once I photograph everything.” And then suddenly, the thing that was giving you life is draining it.
This isn’t a confession so much as a caution. Because I know I’m not alone in this. The passion that drives us can also blind us. And when you add the pressures of productivity, especially in a culture that values constant output, it’s easy to forget that rest is part of the process, too.
Rethinking “Healthy” for Makers
To be honest, I’m still figuring this part out.
I’ve read all the advice - build routines, stretch more, drink water, sleep eight hours - but most of the time, I’m just trying to keep up. My workspaces are spread out across three parts of the house: the woodshop is outside, the clean work, like finishing and assembly, happens in the basement, and the office, where all the digital work lives, is upstairs. It’s not exactly a model of ergonomic efficiency. There’s a constant disjointedness in my workflow that I haven’t really solved yet.
So, when I ask myself what it means to stay healthy as a maker, the answer isn’t neat or clear. Some days, it means setting a timer so I take a break. Other days, it’s just remembering to drink a glass of water before I get lost in a project. Occasionally, it’s giving myself permission to not make something, to rest, or even do nothing at all. That one’s still the hardest.
I used to think rest was something to earn. The real makers push through. That the best work comes from late nights and stubbornness. But more and more, I’m learning to listen to my back when it starts aching, to my eyes when they blur, to the voice in my head saying “this can wait.”
None of this is perfect. Most of it is a work in progress. But I’m trying to build habits that don’t just serve the next product launch or art show - they serve the me who wants to still be doing this in ten years. Slowly, I’m learning that sustainable creativity isn’t about squeezing every drop of productivity out of myself. It’s about finding a rhythm I can live with.
Because what’s the point of building beautiful things if, piece by piece, I’m quietly falling apart behind them?
Community, Culture, and Permission
One of the quiet truths about maker culture is that we often idolize the hustle. We celebrate the person who pulls an all-nighter to finish a collection. We admire the 10-product-a-week grind. We measure success in output, in sales, in speed.
But I’m learning to question that. To push back - gently, but firmly.
What if a healthy creative culture gave space for slowness? For off seasons? For play without pressure? What if we celebrated rest the same way we celebrate launches?
I think we need that. Because otherwise, we risk building a culture that eats its own - where burnout is a badge of honor and joy becomes just another checkbox.
I want something different. I want a culture where we lift each other, not just for what we make, but for how we care for ourselves, for our communities, for the process.
Making Space
In the end, I think the healthiest habit I’m trying to form isn’t a perfect routine or some productivity hack. It’s just the habit of making space for the work I care about, but also for the life around it. Space for rest, for reflection, for not having it all together.
Balance is something I talk about more than I live. Most weeks, things still feel scattered. Some nights, I collapse into bed with sawdust in my hair and a half-finished to-do list in my head. Other days, I get a little closer to the rhythm I’m after: a solid morning of focused work, time with my son, and an evening where I sit down without guilt. Those days feel like small wins, and I’m trying to notice them more.
I’m not writing this because I have the answers. I’m writing it because I’m in the middle of the same messy process so many of us are in - trying to create things that matter without losing ourselves in the process.
So here’s where I’d love to hear from you:
- What helps you stay grounded in your creative life?
- Do you have routines that keep you organized?
- Little rituals that help you reset?
- Ways you stay motivated when the work gets heavy, or scattered, or just plain overwhelming?
Drop your thoughts in the comments, or send me a note. I’m still building this life - piece by piece - and I’d be grateful for anything you’ve learned along the way.
Because whatever we’re making, we don’t have to make it alone.