When Life Presses Pause

anartistslament
Jul 31
4 min read

Open blank book on textured pedestal beside black mug and tablet; Dixon-Valentine Studios 2020 visible, moody still life. — What do you do when your desktop computer dies?

On April 26, 2026, my computer died.

Not gradually.

Not after months of strange noises or mysterious glitches.

Just a simple message:

"Shutting down."

And that was that.

I tried restarting it.

My husband tried restarting it.

He replaced the battery after discovering it had swollen, hoping that was the problem. When that didn't work, the most likely explanation was that the swollen battery had damaged the motherboard.

Sometimes things simply reach the end of their story.

A replacement computer arrived while we were away exploring Morocco and several of Spain's beautiful white villages with my husband's sister. By the time we returned home, another chapter was waiting for us: recovering files, reinstalling software, reconnecting accounts, and trying to remember exactly where everything belonged.

It took much longer than I expected.

And by the time it was finished, something else had happened.

Life had quietly continued without my computer.

And, in some ways...

Without my old routine.

Two small boats skim blue water near a rocky breakwater, with distant hills and fluffy clouds under a calm sky. — Life continued without my computer; a trip to Morocco and the coastal city of Asilah, where the Mediterranean and Atlantic meet.

For weeks, I couldn't do many of the things that had become part of my normal creative life.

Publishing blog posts.

Adding alt text to images.

Creating product listings.

Designing social media graphics.

Scheduling posts.

Keeping up with the dozens of tiny tasks that seem to multiply when you make your living online.

Some of those things I could still do on my iPad.

Many of them were easier — or only possible — on my desktop computer with its large screen and desktop versions of the websites I use.

At first, I found that frustrating.

Then something unexpected happened.

I stopped worrying about it.

Two deep red roses with green leaves in bright sun against a textured beige stone wall, with soft shadows. — First red roses of the season in my little flower garden. My little memory garden has exploded with growth!

I still created.

I still drew on my iPad.

I still filled sketchbooks with ideas.

I worked on decorating our home.

I spent time in the garden.

I traveled.

I enjoyed quiet afternoons.

Life became a little less scheduled and a little more spacious.

What surprised me most wasn't that I missed my work.

I did.

I didn't miss the pressure.

I missed creating.

I missed writing.

But I didn't miss the constant feeling that I should always be producing something.

That realization caught me off guard.

⸻

It wasn't a planned break.

I didn't schedule a sabbatical.

I didn't decide to step away.

Life simply reached over and pressed the pause button for me.

Looking back, I think I needed it more than I realized.

⸻

Now the new computer sits on my desk.

Everything works again.

The files have been recovered.

The software has been installed.

The websites open exactly as they should.

And yet...

I've discovered something I wasn't expecting.

I'm having a harder time sitting down in front of that beautiful, giant monitor than I ever imagined I would.

Not because I don't love what I do.

I do.

Not because I've lost my ideas.

If anything, I have more ideas than ever.

It's because the computer no longer represents possibility.

For a while, it represented unfinished work.

Things waiting.

Projects I hadn't completed.

A long list of "I should..."

And after spending weeks without carrying that weight, I'm not eager to pick it up again.

⸻

The more I've thought about it, the more I've realized that maybe I'm asking myself the wrong question.

I've been asking:

"How do I get back to where I left off?"

But perhaps there is no "back."

The person who sat down at that computer on April 26 isn't exactly the same person sitting here today.

Since then, I've traveled.

I've slowed down.

I've spent more time outside.

I've redesigned rooms in our home.

I've rediscovered the simple pleasure of creating without immediately thinking about how to package it, list it, optimize it, or promote it.

Maybe I don't need my old routine.

Maybe I need a new one.

A painting I did years ago that symbolizes moving forward in a new direction without necessarily seeing the destination.

It's funny, really.

Over the past year, I've written about sustainable creativity.

I've written about working in seasons instead of forcing inspiration.

I've encouraged other artists to build gentler systems that leave room for life.

Apparently, life decided it was time for me to practice what I'd been preaching.

I'm still figuring out what that looks like.

I don't think it means abandoning my work.

I don't think it means producing less.

I think it means creating from a healthier place.

A place where the business supports the artist instead of quietly consuming her.

A place where a walk, a garden, a conversation, or an afternoon spent rearranging furniture isn't time taken away from creativity — they're part of the creative life itself.