It Doesn't Look Different. It is.
Blog 18: The Studio Era — a return to life that doesn’t need to prove itself.
The tea still brews. The chair still creaks. The hours pass with their usual weight. There is no arrival, no big insights, no huge epiphanies. Yet…underneath it all, something has started humming - low, steady, electric.
It's not energy in the body. The body is slow, thick, reluctant to follow. Something else, however is already moving. The part of me that sees forward. That wants to create again. That remembers how to imagine.
For once, I'm not sprinting to catch up with it. I'm not overriding the body to chase the soul. That's what I used to do. Build from the spark and deal with the crash later.
This time, I'm waiting.
Because this isn't just another recovery post. And this space isn't going back to what it was. There are things I want to write now that aren't about collapse. Not about healing or survival or struggle.
This is the work now. A Reclaimed Life - won’t be the performance of power or the analysis of pain. It will be the quiet build of something I can actually live inside.
I can feel the edges of it coming back. Color. Rhythm. A studio forming in the background of a life I never really got to inhabit. There are things I want to make that don't fix anything. Words that don't prove a thing. Beauty that doesn't carry a moral.
The joy isn't gone. It's just more patient now. It shows up in small flashes: the idea to grow marigolds in a chipped enamel pot. The pull to photograph the zinnias in high sun. The sudden urge to organize vintage jewelry by color, not use. It's not productive in societal terms, yet it's alive. That's what's different.
And still - my body says no. Not quite yet.
It's not resistance. It's protection. There's a quiet kind of loyalty I'm starting to feel toward my body now - it’s not an idea, it’s in practice. In the way I pause. In the way I don't push. This relationship is new. Fragile, but real. It's like rebuilding trust with something I forgot was part of me. We're learning each other again. Not through output, but through permission.
Maybe I'll open the windows just to hear the wind shift. Let the meal-prep sit a little longer because the sunlight feels better on the floor than on my to-do list. The day itself has become the project now, untracked, unfinished, and it’s all still ok, somehow.
Sometimes it comes in fast - a flash of what's possible. A creative hit. An entire season forming in my chest. A color palette. A phrase. A new way of writing. And then just as quickly, it dissolves. Because the body isn't ready. And I promised this time I'd wait.
That's the paradox. There's a momentum I can taste. And, if I chase it, I'll lose it. It only comes if I stay. If I let the foundations settle before I build again.
I don’t call this discipline, I call it devotion. To the body I spent years abandoning in the name of growth. To the rhythms I used to override in service of timelines that never served me.
And yes, there's grief in that. Grief for how often I left myself behind to keep up with what I thought was next. Grief for all the things I built too fast. Grief for the way I confused urgency with alignment, expansion with pressure, inspiration with obligation.
I no longer check-in every morning to see what hurts or run those mental scans for meaning inside discomfort. I don't hold up stillness like a mirror to diagnose what's unresolved. I let it be stillness. I let it be silence. I let it be what it is.
The nervous system isn't the narrator anymore. The body isn't a problem to solve. It's the place I'm learning to live from. Even when it doesn't want to move. Especially then.
Logically, I thought I’d wait to start over - after I felt more vibrant. But, that’s not the case. I found out: the beginning is the wait. From the very beginning of the choosing not to override. The refusal to perform readiness.
Something is building. It’s not out of sudden clarity, it's from restraint. There is no urgency here, there is pure respect. For a creative life that doesn't cost my body. A body that doesn't have to catch up to stay in the room.
There will be more soon. Writing that sounds different. Work that doesn't come from collapse. Maybe color. Maybe heat. Maybe joy without explanation.
There might be new kinds of quiet. Long afternoons that don't need purpose. A studio filled with small, specific projects that no one asked for. A day spent rearranging nothing but the feel of a space. These aren't plans. They're frequencies.
Maybe a zine. Maybe a new rhythm. Maybe a life that doesn't need to be decoded to be lived.
Maybe fresh peaches eaten over the sink. A midsummer playlist. The way light catches the edge of a bowl at 4pm. Nothing remarkable. Everything different.
But not yet.
The studio isn't quite open. It's being inhabited. Quietly. Honestly. Without performance. Without proof.
I'm not writing this to mark a moment. I'm writing it because I didn't need to wait for one.
And if something in this field feels familiar to you - if the space between stillness and return carries its own frequency - you'll know. You'll feel it. Not because I wrote it for you. But because we're standing on similar ground.
Welcome in.
The studio begins here.
Love,
Sherry
The Studio Era - a reclaimed life in real time.
A medley of presence, color, and the return of creative rhythm.
To those who read, share, comment or support this work - thank you. Your presence creates the field where these words can exist.
If something here resonated, feel free to pass it along. Recognition travels through authentic connection.
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About the Author:
Sherry writes from the space between dimensions - where presence meets paradox, and mastery gives way to meaning. With a background in metaphysical work and energetic healing that spans decades, her voice carries the imprint of lived wisdom - as an invitation versus a doctrine.
Her blog, It Exists (For Now), moves fluidly across themes of transformation, embodiment, remembrance, identity, purpose, and the quiet revelations of everyday life. This is not the kind of writing to teach you, fix you, or convert you. It’s a space to feel, question, soften, and come home to what’s already here.
Whether she’s naming what’s unraveling beneath the surface or tracing the shimmer of wonder returning, her words are less about offering answers and more about walking with you through the liminal. The words hold a frequency that are felt long after they are read.