When the Things You Love Go Quiet

Lately, I’ve been telling myself—and anyone who watches my Instagram stories—that I’m about to do all the things.

I’ll sew again.
I’ll finish that project.
I’ll get back into my rhythm.

The plans are there. They’re written down. They’re organized. They look hopeful on paper.

But here’s the truth I haven’t said out loud: it’s been over a month since I even turned on my sewing machine.

That realization landed heavier than I expected. Sewing has always been more than a hobby for me—it’s been a source of joy, creativity, and grounding. And now, it sits quietly, untouched, while I keep insisting (mostly to myself) that I’ll get back to it “soon.”

So what happens when the things you love start to feel distant?

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Planning Without Following Through

I still plan. I still write lists. I still imagine how good it will feel once I start again. From the outside, it probably looks like motivation is alive and well.

But something has shifted.

Lately, my plans don’t turn into action. The energy it takes to follow through feels bigger than it used to be. Not impossible—just heavy. Like walking through water instead of air.

And that’s the confusing part. Because when you lose interest in something you love, the first instinct is to ask:
Is something wrong with me?

Is this a mild form of depression?
Or did I just lose the excitement?

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When Life Piles On

Context matters, and I can’t ignore mine.

I was sick over the holidays—a time that’s already emotionally loaded—and instead of rest feeling restorative, it felt lonely and sad. Just as I was finding my way back into my gym routine (a place that usually makes me feel strong and capable), I tore the meniscus in my right knee.

Suddenly, my body felt limited. Movement became cautious. Progress slowed.

When things like this happen back to back, it doesn’t always feel dramatic in the moment. There’s no single breaking point. Instead, it’s like a slow dimming of the lights.

You keep going. You keep showing up. But something inside starts to slump.

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Loss of Joy Doesn’t Always Look Like Despair

We often imagine depression as being unable to get out of bed or feeling overwhelmingly sad all the time. But sometimes it’s quieter than that.

Sometimes it looks like:

• Loving something deeply… but not wanting to do it
• Making plans… but never quite starting
• Wanting to want something again

That doesn’t automatically mean depression. It also doesn’t mean you’ve failed, grown lazy, or lost your identity.

It might mean you’re tired in a way rest hasn’t fully touched yet.

It might mean your nervous system has been absorbing too much—illness, disappointment, physical injury, disrupted routines—and needs time to recalibrate.

Joy doesn’t disappear overnight. Sometimes it just goes into hiding.

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Grieving the Version of Yourself Who Was “On Fire”

There’s also a quiet grief in realizing you’re not operating at the same capacity you once were.

I miss the version of myself who couldn’t wait to sew. The one who found excitement in starting, not just finishing. The one who didn’t have to negotiate with herself just to begin.

And maybe that’s part of the slump too—not just losing the activity, but losing the ease of loving it.

We don’t talk enough about how hard it is to be patient with ourselves when we’re healing. Especially when the healing isn’t visible.

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Maybe It’s Not Over—Maybe It’s Paused

I don’t think this season means sewing is “over” for me. But I do think it means something needs gentler expectations.

Instead of asking, Why can’t I do what I used to?
I’m trying to ask, What does showing up look like right now?

Maybe it’s turning on the sewing machine without making anything.
Maybe it’s sitting near it.
Maybe it’s allowing myself to not perform productivity online while I figure things out offline.

Slumps don’t always need fixing. Sometimes they need acknowledgment.

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If You’re Here Too

If you’ve lost the will to do something you once loved, you’re not broken. You’re human.

Life happens in waves, and sometimes they come too fast to process individually. When that happens, joy doesn’t vanish—it waits.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

Not everything needs to be rushed back to life. Some things return when we stop demanding they do.

For now, I’m letting myself be where I am—unfinished projects, quiet machine, and all.