The Art of Creating for No One

In the darkest days of the Blitz, as Britain stood alone and bankrupt amid the Second World War, the Treasury proposed slashing funding for the arts to pay for the war. Churchill’s reply was instant: “Then what the hell are we fighting for?”

It’s a sentiment that struck me as profound when I first encountered it, and it has only deepened in meaning as I’ve moved through life.

The arts were my refuge as a child. Not in the escapist sense, though there was certainly that too, but in the way they gave me a language for things I couldn’t otherwise articulate. Ballet taught me discipline and grace. Writing gave me a way to untangle the knots in my mind. They were, and remain, essential.

This year, in the midst of everything, I found myself returning to movement in a way I hadn’t since I was younger. Not for an audience. Not for some carefully curated social media post. Just for me. There’s something almost rebellious about that now, isn’t there? Creating something purely for the sake of creation, with no thought of who might see it or what they might think.

We talk endlessly about self-care these days. Meditation apps and morning routines, green smoothies and eight hours of sleep, bubble baths and boundary-setting. All of it is important, all of it is valid. Yet somewhere in the cultural conversation about wellness, we’ve lost sight of creativity as a fundamental pillar of our health. We’ve forgotten that making things, moving our bodies in ways that feel good, putting words on a page that no one else will ever read — these acts are medicine too.

For me, ballet and writing have been nothing short of lifesaving. They’ve given me a way to process the things I’ve witnessed, the stories I’ve covered, the darkness that sometimes threatens to overwhelm. Through movement, I can release what my body has been holding. Through words, I can make sense of what my mind struggles to comprehend. It’s cathartic in the truest sense — a purging, a healing, a transformation of pain into something bearable.

I believe we’re all born creative. Observe an infant or toddler: they dance before they can walk with any real coordination; they sing, chortle, and make nonsensical sounds before they can form coherent sentences. They draw with abandon, telling elaborate stories about scribbles on paper. They build towers to knock them down and build them again. They inhabit imaginary worlds with complete conviction. Everything is play, everything is possibility, everything is creation.

And then we grow up. Slowly, imperceptibly, we learn to color inside the lines. We learn that there are right ways and wrong ways to do things. We compare our crooked stick figures to someone else’s polished masterpiece and decide we’re not artists. We sing off-key in the shower and decide we’re not musicians. We write a clumsy sentence and decide we’re not writers. The spark that burned so bright in childhood dims to an ember, and eventually, for many of us, goes out entirely.

However, here’s what I’ve learned: that spark never truly dies. It just waits, patient and persistent, for us to remember it exists. And when we do — when we pick up the paintbrush or the pen or the dance shoes again — something shifts. Not externally, necessarily, but internally. Something that was closed begins to open. Something that was tight begins to loosen. We remember what it feels like to create not for perfection, but for the sheer joy of making.

From a mental health perspective, the research backs this up in beautiful ways. Creative expression activates different neural pathways, helps process trauma, reduces anxiety, and provides a sense of agency and accomplishment. Yet, you don’t need studies to tell you this — you feel it in your body when you’re in that flow state, when you’ve lost track of time because you’re so absorbed in what you’re making. That’s not just pleasant; that’s healing.

I want to be clear about something, though. I’m not talking about becoming a content creator. I’m not suggesting you start a TikTok or Instagram account dedicated to your art, or build a platform around your creative pursuits. Those things are fine if that’s what brings you joy, but that’s not what I’m talking about here.

I’m talking about the quiet, private, sacred act of creation that exists solely for you. The painting you keep in your closet. The journal you write in before dawn, when the house is still sleeping. The way you move your body in your living room with the curtains drawn. The stories you tell yourself as you fall asleep. The songs you hum while cooking dinner that no one else will ever hear.

In a world that seems to demand we share everything, document everything, monetize everything, there’s something almost subversive about keeping our creativity to ourselves. About making things simply because they bring us pleasure, because they help us process our days, because they connect us to something deeper than the performance of daily life.

My goal for 2026 is to carve out more space for these private creative pursuits. To spend less time thinking about what I should share with the world and more time simply being with myself in these acts of creation. To trust that the value isn’t diminished by remaining unseen. That, in fact, there might be something more precious about keeping certain creations close, like secrets we tell only to ourselves.

Of course, if you want to share what you make, that’s beautiful too. There’s value in that vulnerability, in offering your creations to others. But I think we’ve swung so far in that direction — toward performance, toward consumption, toward the constant documentation of our lives —that we’ve forgotten how to do things just for us. How to let our creativity exist without the pressure of an audience.

* * *

As we move into the magic of the holiday season, I find myself marveling, as I do every year, at how different this time feels here than it did growing up in Australia. Christmas for me meant summer heat and swimming at the beach, backyard cricket with cousins while prawns sizzled on the barbie, the smell of sunscreen and salt water mixing with the scent of pavlova.

The Christmas cards I saw as a child, snow-covered cottages and pine trees and rosy-cheeked families bundled in scarves, seemed like pure fantasy, something that existed only in movies and storybooks.

And yet here I am, years later, living inside those cards. The cold bite of December air. Snow falling soft and silent. The warm glow of lights against dark afternoons. Mulled wine steaming in mugs at Christmas markets. The sharp, clean scent of pine. It still feels like a gift, this winter Christmas, like stepping into a dream I used to have.

There’s something about the contrast between the Christmas I knew and the One I live now that reminds me of how much beauty lies in different ways of experiencing the same thing. How can we hold multiple truths, multiple versions of joy, multiple ways of being in the world?

As we close out this year, my resolutions aren’t about doing more, achieving more or becoming more. They’re about being more fully myself, being more present as a mother, and being more honest in my creative work. Being more willing to sit with discomfort and uncertainty and being more connected to the things that truly matter, not the things that look impressive from the outside, but the things that feel essential from within.

That’s the gift I’m giving myself: permission to create without purpose, to move without audience, to write without publication, to be human in all the messy, beautiful, imperfect ways that entails.

Thank you, as always, for being here. For reading these words. For sharing this space with me. Your support means more than you know, and I’m grateful for each of you as we step together into whatever comes next.

Here’s to keeping the spark alive. Here’s to creating for no one but ourselves. Here’s to the quiet magic of making things that matter only because they matter to us.

Hollie xo