The Things We Abandon Just to Belong / Slow Living Vlog

Have you ever created something different? Something that felt deeply alive within you while you were making it, only to find in the end that it went unappreciated. And so, little by little, you abandon that part of your creativity for the sake of acceptance. You learn to fit into other people's world, rather than continue creating your own. Every day, we wake up and move through this world without realizing how easily we have forgotten the inner child who once dreamed so freely. We forget the things we once loved to create. The things that made us lose all sense of time because the joy of doing them outweighed the demands of the clock and the expectations of others. Somewhere along the way, we forget the beauty of those childhood dreams. As we grow older and become more accustomed to what the world expects of us, we begin to simply go with the flow, rowing our little boats along the familiar current of conformity. And perhaps every now and then, something inside us quietly asks, do you remember what you loved before you learned to seek everyone else's approval? I remember when I was in second grade, my teacher was standing in front of the classroom, teaching something. I don't remember the lesson anymore, but I remember what I was doing. I was doodling on my paper. She called my name and told me to stop what I was doing and pay attention. And for some reason, I never doodled again. Looking back now, I realize how easily small moments can shape us without our knowing. When I was young, I used to draw everywhere, on paper, on recycled cardboard, sometimes even on the walls of our house. Anywhere I could find a place to draw, I drew. There was a kind of silence and joy in it. There was a time when I told someone that I wanted to paint when I grew up. I was told there's no money in fine arts. And slowly, I let that dream go. Not really because I believed there was no money in it. I think I simply wanted to be accepted. And at that age, acceptance felt more important than following something I loved. So without realizing it, I compromised. And little by little, I abandoned something that once brought me joy. In retrospect, I can see how much of my life was shaped by circumstances and by the people around me. I simply wanted what most of us want. To belong. To be accepted. To know that what we are doing is somehow good enough. There is nothing wrong with wanting encouragement or listening to the wisdom of others. But somewhere along the way, we can allow other people's approval to become the compass of our lives instead of paying attention to the creativity God has placed within us. Years passed and somewhere along the way, I forgot that child. Until something inside me began asking me to slow down. So I did. At first, I wasn't trying to become an artist. I wasn't trying to write stories. Something inside me was simply asking for quiet. Quiet enough to write. Quiet enough to doodle. Quiet enough to hear myself again. And the more I slowed down, the more I began to hear what had been buried beneath all the noise. I started journaling. I doodled again. I learned to sit quietly with my thoughts and feelings instead of immediately trying to silence them. And slowly, a desire to write began stirring within me. So I picked up a pen and I wrote. I wrote cringeworthy poetry. I attempted a short story that probably deserved to be crumpled into a ball and thrown straight into the trash. Then one day, I picked up some cheap watercolor and inexpensive paper and started painting what I couldn't put into words. None of it was perfect. Some of my paintings probably looked as thought a child had made them. But strangely, I didn't care because I was happy. The materials were cheap. The paintings were imperfect. But the joy of creating them felt priceless. And somewhere in all of this, I began to wonder whether God was bringing me back to something I had forgotten. Not necessarily so I could become a great artist. Not so I could prove that the people who discouraged me were wrong. But perhaps simply to rediscover a part of myself that had been quiet for a very long time. Through my imperfect writing and imperfect paintings, I began discovering myself again. I began listening to what was actually inside me, despite the loud voice of my inner critic. And something unexpected happened. The less I needed my work to be perfect, the less I needed other people to approve of it. The compass of my life began to steady. Painting taught me to see. Writing taught me to listen. And creating taught me that not everything beautiful has to be validated by someone else before it is allowed to exist. I began to understand the heart behind a painting. I began to understand the heart of the artist. And when I wrote stories, I began to understand the hearts of my characters. Their longings, their fears, their contradictions, the things they could not quiet say. Creativity was no longer simply about making something beautiful. It was teaching me how to see. And maybe there is something in you that had been quiet for a long time. Something you once loved. Not because you were particularly good at it. Not because it was useful. And not because anyone applauded you for doing it. But simply because you felt alive while doing it. Maybe it was drawing. Writing. Singing. Growing something with your hands. Taking photographs. Making little things no one else understood. Or perhaps it was something you haven't thought about in years. Maybe it doesn't need to become a career. Maybe it doesn't need to make money. Maybe it doesn't even need to be good. Perhaps it only needs a little room to exist again. Sometimes I think about that little girl. The one who doodled during class. The one who drew on walls and recycled cardboard. The one who once said she wanted to paint and write when she grew up. Maybe she never really disappeared. Maybe she simply became quiet because she learned that acceptance felt safer than expression. And perhaps slowing down was how I finally heard her again. So now I let her doodle. I let her paint. I let her write terrible poetry. I let her write stories. I let her make imperfect things simply because there is joy in making them. And this time I don't need someone to tell her that what she creates is beautiful. I don't need her to prove anything. I don't need her to become anything. I just want to give her the space I wish she had been given all those years ago. The space to wonder. The space to make mistakes. The space to follow whatever quiet curiosity is calling her. And perhaps there is a part of you waiting for that same permission. Not permission from the world. Not permission from the people around you. Just permission from yourself to begin again. So maybe when this video ends you could ask yourself one question. What did I love before I started wondering whether I was good enough at it? And whatever comes to mind maybe don't dismiss it so quickly. As for the little girl in me I just want to let her create.