Diving in Head First

Ever dive in headfirst to something, only to find yourself stuck, unable to get back out?

Yeah, I’ve been there too—and so has my kid, as you can see.

I snapped this photo after he dove straight into his ball pit (which, for the sake of not adding to the chaos of our living room, is actually filled with pillows and blankets). At first, it was just a funny picture—legs flailing, face buried, a perfect toddler moment and so very characteristic of my son. But as I was scrolling back through my photos the other day, I stumbled across it again and thought: “I feel like that a lot.”

Lately, I’ve been struggling. My professional work is overwhelming. The kids have doctors appointments every week and I have my own doctor’s appointments every week. I’m trying to fix my health and keep up with hobbies and housework—but I often find myself physically sick or so exhausted that even the idea of going for an evening walk feels like too much. More often than I’d like to admit, I end up on the couch, doom scrolling Instagram.

You see, TJ and I don’t have a lot of local help. Our families don't live close and our oldest son was just hitting the socialization point when the pandemic hit so we didn't make many community friends. My mom is busy supporting my sister’s kids and my in-laws are facing medical challenges, which makes stepping in difficult or impossible. So we are left doing our best for our kids while also trying to take care of ourselves—and it’s hard. I’ve never been good at self-care, often struggling with crushing self-doubt and crippling anxiety, but I’ve been trying lately. Little things like starting a morning routine, trying to go to bed earlier, drinking more water, etc. You know, the basics. But no matter how hard I try, my best still doesn't feel enough to do it all.

And I’m learning that… maybe I’m not supposed to.

But, man—that's hard.

I’ve held onto things for so long. I’ve poured time, energy, and money into projects that I don’t want to walk away from but I'm beginning to realize I probably should. Abandoning them feels like leaving a tab open on my browser, one that keeps whispering, “Don’t forget to come back to this someday.” But then I never do. And that lingering weight? That’s straight up regret. However, this all circles back to a concept I learned about a long time ago but am only now just beginning to truly understand: the Fallacy of Sunk Costs. The idea that something continues to have value just because you’ve already invested in it—whether with money, time, or effort—even if it no longer serves you. Even if finishing it would cost more than it's worth to you now.

Looking over some of the items in my crafting closet, that concept hit me verry hard. I have so many unfinished projects and they’re just sitting in boxes or on shelves, quietly waiting for me to return “someday.” I even found a cross-stitch project in a bag since 2005 that I periodically kept working on but have yet to even get near completion. That's 20 years. It feels a little sad.

So, lately, I made a hard decision for my sanity and future self. I’m walking away from some creative pursuits I used to pour myself into. I stopped trying to make and sell handmade greeting cards. I gave away several handmade bags I’d planned on selling. I passed on my old beading supplies to an aunt who makes jewelry. I even tossed some of the old bead animals I made back in high school when I was obsessed with keychain crafts. (To be fair, they’re not quite as cool now that I’m older.) I still have stacks of clear stamps and ink pads I once adored—worth hundreds of dollars that I've invested in collecting over the years—and now I’m trying to figure out how to sell them since I barely use them anymore. I’m not even sure if the ink pads still work.

It’s not that I don’t love crafting. I do. I always will. But I had to admit to myself that turning my hobbies into side hustles wasn’t bringing me joy. It became one more thing to manage, to make space for, to feel guilty about not doing. So I’ve simplified and pared things down. I’ve chosen to focus on the kinds of creativity that serve the season of life I’m in now.

And here’s the real kicker that I'm still trying to accept: just because I used to love doing something doesn’t mean I’m failing by letting it go. Just because I invested in it doesn’t mean I’m obligated to keep holding on to it indefinitely, letting it take up space in my mental load. I’m allowed to change. I’m allowed to grow.

Right now, I want to take photos of my kids. I want to capture our everyday moments before they grow too big and mom and dad aren't cool anymore. I want to photograph my cats and share their goofy antics with the world. I want to write more. I know I’m not perfect nor am I consistent, but that’s okay. I want to be more present with my family—and with myself. I want better habits for my body, my brain, and my spirit. Even if it’s slow, even if it’s messy, and even if sometimes it looks like me curled up on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling endlessly through Instagram on a Thursday night.

Letting go hurts. But it also opens up space—for new joys, new projects, and new versions of me to take shape. I’m making room for the kind of creativity that fits the life I’m living now.

So I’ll leave you with this: be as recklessly committed as my son, diving headfirst into your passions and your projects. Find the things that bring you joy. And if you get stuck or need to let go? That’s okay. There’s usually someone there who can help pull you back out and help you start over. Give yourself permission to start again. You can pivot. You can rest. And when you’re ready, you can climb back up and try again—on your own terms.

Cheers,

Jessamyn