The difficulty of transitions.

Today I finished my very last assignment for grad school.

As I sit here and think about it, I really can't believe it's been almost 3 years, exactly, since I heard that I was accepted to grad school.  To people who have been watching me learn and grow throughout the duration of the program, I think it probably does feel -- to them -- like I've been getting my degree forever.  But to me?  It feels like just yesterday that I started classes.

From theprospect.net

And now I'm done.  All that is left is class on Saturday, where two of my classmates will present their ethical dilemmas, and then we as a class will go out to brunch.

And then... on to graduation.

Being done with grad school feels so... final.  When I finished undergrad, I always knew I would be going on to grad school in the near future, so it never really felt like I left academia.  I've grown up in academia.  My dad has his PhD and I grew up at the university where he teaches.  My mom has her Master's, and my sister is graduating this year with her PhD.  In my extended family there are at least twelve people total (not counting my dad or my sister) who at least have their Master's degrees, if not PhDs.

So yes.  It feels weird to know that I am... done with school.  I mean, yes, there are some very unhatched plans so far that I have about getting a second Master's, and I am (very very slightly) tempted to look into the newly developed clinical DSW programs (DSW = Doctorate of Social Work).  But none of those will be happening -- as far as I know -- within the next 10 or even 15 years... whereas when I finished undergrad, I knew I would be going on to grad school within the next 5 years.

Transitions are hard.  I've never really been all that good with change, and this is a pretty huge change, if you ask me.  I'm excited, yes... but I'm also scared.  Scared that I'm not going to be an effective therapist.  Scared that I'm not going to be able to hold down a job.  Scared that I'm not really as awesome as (some) people seem to think I am.

From radiantlifecounseling.com

But it will all be okay.

There will be rough patches, there will be bumps, there will be bruises and tears and frustrations.

...Really, though, that just describes life.  There have been rough patches, bumps, bruises, tears, and frustrations in grad school, too.

I'll just be doing something different.  Something new.

And I'll finally be a Real Adult™ (whatever that is).

Living a Real Life™ (whatever that is).

I need to make a list of things I want to do now that school is over.  There's so much that I kinda just let slide during my years in grad school -- like, hey, what social life, what friends IRL?

I'm going to horribly butcher this quote, but whoever said that endings are really just beginnings is right. (There was more to the quote than that... but that's the part I needed to remember today.)  This is a new beginning, and I'm excited (and scared).

Onward and upward,

Addison.

...Where did the time go?!

The past few days, I have been thinking about how it feels like I began my three-year stint in grad school just yesterday.  But at the same time, I know that the me of 2012 is not the me of 2015.  I've changed so much, and I would say mostly for the better.  These changes range from me knowing and understanding myself better, both personally and professionally, to being more self-confident, to being more analytical about various situations -- and so many more changes.  I couldn't list them all here.

But really, although I've changed and grown and matured a lot, the core of who I am is still there.

Three years.  When I started, it felt like it was going to be an eternity until I graduated... but here we are.  I will be done with classes in 10 days.  Graduation is two weeks after I finish classes.  I've completed my internship.  The only things I have left to do for school are a final exam and one last paper.

10 semesters (counting summer as 2 semesters) with a total of 16 classes.

240 hours of weekday night classes (not counting summer classes).
336 hours of Saturday classes (not counting summer classes).
500 hours of foundation field placement (fall '13 - spring '14).
600 hours of advanced field placement (fall '14 - spring '15).
Total: 1676 hours spent in classes and at my internship. *

* This does not count any time spent outside of classes -- doing homework, readings, assignments, etc.

In 3 years, there are 26,208 hours (assuming an even 52 weeks per year and 16 weeks per semester).
15% of all of the hours since fall 2012 have been spent either in class or at field placement (not counting summer classes, though).

And now... having almost made it through grad school... I sit here, with only 240 hours left until classes are over... wondering where the time has gone.

But even though time has inexplicably whizzed by... I've learned so much.

I've learned that it's okay to be self-confident.

I've learned that personal experience can trump book-learned knowledge.

I've learned that I don't need to be ashamed of my past.

I've learned that doing therapy is so much easier than it initially seems.**  Yes, a lot of thought goes into the process... but it comes more and more naturally, the more I do it.

** To me, the biggest hurdle that I will face in being a therapist is getting to know the client.  So much of what interventions will work and what won't are dependent upon knowing your client.  But really, therapy is talking.  Sometimes I get stuck... and that's okay.  Even the most experienced therapists get stuck.  And by stating that doing therapy is easier than I initially thought it was -- that is, by no means, me saying that I am not anxious about being a therapist!  I am quite anxious about it... but I think I will be okay.

And I've also learned that it's okay that I'm not who I was before.  In fact, I'd be worried if grad school did not change me at all.  Granted, not all of the change I've experienced has been due to grad school.  There have been a lot of personal struggles that I have either conquered or coped with in the three years I've spent as a grad student.  These, too, have taught me a lot.

Life isn't always easy.  In fact, it rarely ever is easy.  But that's okay.  I've come to accept that.  Yes, I'll mope and pout sometimes now if I'm frustrated by how unfair life is.  I am not perfect.  I'll still grumble and groan when problems happen -- especially if they're problems that I have little to no control over.

But in the end?... I'll face the situation and deal with it.  Whatever that may look like.  I will take the best route possible -- I won't always be right, I'll still make mistakes, but another thing I've learned in grad school is that it is okay to be human.  As a therapist, I won't be able to fix the world.  I won't be Superwoman.  I won't stop wars and famine, drought and abuse, depression and pollution from happening with a wave of my hand.

But that's okay.  Because I can make change in small ways.  I already have begun.  In the 26,208 hours that have passed since I enrolled in grad school, I've made small changes.  Sometimes infinitesimally small changes.  Yet... change has happened.

And in 240 hours, I will be done with grad school forever until 2038... which is when I'll make the decision about getting my second Master's degree. (Pssh, I've been in higher ed for 11 years.  I can't tell myself that I'm done with school forever and be realistic at the same time!)

Onward and upward, my friends...
~ Addison.

Denial.

Denial is a common phenomenon among people with problems.

In fact, I don't think I even really need to put that specifier there.  People, in general, are wonderfully adept at denying what they don't want to believe.  And truly, denial can make life a hell of a lot easier sometimes -- for a time, at least -- especially if no one challenges your denial.

I've noticed in talking with various people, that denial comes up a long when discussing dissociative identity disorder (DID) -- formerly known as multiple personality disorder.

Not only is there denial in the professional community that DID exists, but people who have DID often spiral into denial, where they don't believe that they could've been abused to the extent that they needed to learn to dissociate to the point of developing alters (alters = "alternate personalities").

It saddens me, as a soon-to-be Master's level social worker, that there are people out there -- professionals, such as psychiatrists and therapists -- who still don't believe that DID is a valid diagnosis.  What holds them back from believing it?  Is it because they don't want to believe that people are capable of such atrocious acts of abuse that would cause children (sometimes as young as two or three) to need to learn to dissociate?  Or is it a catch-22 -- that because they haven't seen anyone with DID in however many years of practice, that they believe it doesn't exist?

From wikipedia.com

I know that people with DID (who call themselves "multiples" -- harking back to the prior diagnosis of multiple personality disorder) wish that DID weren't real, too.  Not only would it make their lives easier, but it would mean that severely abusive people don't exist.

But even if professionals deny it, the fact is -- DID exists.  And sadistic people, who get pleasure from abusing children in any (and every) manner possible, exist.

How can I say this with such certainty?

Because I know multiples.  I have several friends who are multiples, and honestly... think about it.  What would anyone gain by making up this diagnosis, by saying they have it when they don't?  It's not a diagnosis that you parade around out in front of people.  It's nothing that anyone is proud of.  Multiples are chameleons, because they've learned to be.  It's safer that way for them.  If you can learn to blend into any environment, then you'll be safer -- from having your "secret" (that of having DID) discovered.

Admitting that you have DID can be shaming.  When I look at my multiple friends, I see nothing but strength, perseverance, and the resiliency of the human spirit.  But other people may not share my views.  Being an adult survivor of childhood abuse is not easy to admit to, and in a sense, too, it can make you vulnerable in the here and now.

But at the same time, being able to recognize what you've survived, that you're still alive today despite of the horrors that you went through in years past -- that's remarkable.  Again, it highlights the resilience that we as humans entail.  And the fact that DID develops due to childhood abuse -- that tells us that children are far more resilient than people often think.

From discussingdissociation.com

Dealing with denial can be easier than facing the truth -- no matter what the truth is that you are running from.  Whether it's related to you not wanting to believe there is trauma in your past, or if you don't want to see that your child (or relative) is struggling with substance abuse, or if you don't want to admit that your significant other may be lying to you... no matter what it is -- yes, denial does serve a purpose.

But it's when you decide to stop denying that true growth occurs.  That's when you stand up straight, square your shoulders, and face the problem as best as you can.

"Facing the problem" will look different depending on what the problem is, of course.  But no matter what that will entail, I believe that it is always better to face the problem/issue and the potential consequences, than live in denial.  Denial is easier, for a time... but I constantly denied my feelings, if I constantly denied my experiences and beliefs, then I'm not being true to myself.



Be true to yourself.
Be willing to help yourself.
Stop the denial.
Get outside help, if you need it.

And go out there, conquer your demons... and live your life.

Cheering you on,
~Addison.

What is safety?

As defined by the Merriam Webster dictionary, safety is "the condition of being protected from ... danger, risk, or injury."

But how do we know that we are safe? what is it that makes us feel safe?

Safety seems to be something that many people just take for granted.  "Why, of course I'm safe," you might say to yourself.  "I'm not married to anyone who would hurt me, my job is as safe as any other job is, and I don't really take any risks."

However, there are people who, for whatever reason, don't feel safe.  Can't feel safe.  Even if they know that realistically, they are physically safe... they cannot grasp the concept of feeling safe.

You may think it odd to see an adult wrapping him- or herself up in soft blankets... or snuggling with a stuffed animal... or lying under a pile of pillows, because the weight of the pillows is soothing.

Yet there are adults who do that.  Adults whose public persona would never give away that really, inside, they are terrified.  That they are scarred from situations that happened years ago.

There are adults who are afraid of the dark and need to have nightlights on in the house after sundown.

There are adults who need to have verbal reassurance that they'll be okay.

From rediscoverthemagic.com

It's not because they're weak.
It's not because they're less intelligent.
It's not because they're "less than" in any way.

It's because they've experienced what it's like to be unsafe.  What it's like to be violated, time and again.  What it's like to feel as though "victim" is tattooed across their forehead.  What it's like to feel as though they can never speak up about what happened to them, because they were taught that if they spoke up, bad things would happen.

Safety is an elusive beast.  Many of us feel safe, and assume that because we do, everyone does.  But that's not true -- as much as I wish it were.  Even adults who logically, rationally know that nothing is wrong and that their current physical environment is safe, still struggle with feeling safe.

From pixgood.com

And if adults struggle this much with feeling safe... what about children?

What about the children who are either still being abused, or who have recently been abused?

What about the children, who don't understand what happened, or why it happened, or if it will happen again?

How do we help them feel safe?

How do we connect the meaning of being safe, physically, mentally, and emotionally, to them realizing what feeling safe is like?

I don't have the answers.  I know from working with families who have adopted traumatized children that it takes time, patience, and work -- on the parts of the parents, children, and whatever professional supports they have -- in order to help the trauma recede into the background.  To realize that they're safe now -- that although there was a time when they weren't safe, that time is gone, and they're okay now.

I don't know who is reading this right now... I don't know if anyone out there feels unsafe in any way -- whether physically, mentally, or emotionally -- but I know that it can get better.  That you can feel safe again.

Because of the nature of this post, I'm going to include some links for outside resources:
- The National Domestic Violence Hotline -- for the US
- The National Child Abuse Hotline  -- for the US
- Child Sexual Abuse Help/Advice (including hotline) -- for UK/Ireland
- Domestic Violence Hotline -- for UK
- Fort Refuge (support/advice forums for survivors of any type of abuse worldwide)

Hoping for peace...
~Addison.

Learning from the negatives.

So I'm not perfect. (Big surprise there, huh?... just kidding. *grin*)

People remind me of this sometimes, by bringing up negative things I did in the past.  "Hey, remember when you did/said this?" ... "Remember when you reacted like this to this situation?" ... "Remember that one time when...."

It gets old, especially when the person that does it the most is someone very close to me.  But at the same time, it's interesting to be able to listen, and acknowledge that yes, I have a hard time with certain things in life -- and then remind whoever is pointing out my flaws, that over the past two and a half years, especially, I have grown and matured quite a lot.

Things I struggle with a lot right now:

- feeling the need to be "perfect" in some areas of my life

- accepting that perfection isn't possible

- the feeling that I am not "good enough" (for what, I don't know)

- accepting that there will be people who are "more than" I will ever be, in any field (e.g., more intelligent, more empathic, more compassionate, more analytical, etc.), and that that is absolutely okay because I'm doing the very best I can with the resources and knowledge that I have at this point in time.

Things that have improved for me over the course of the past two-ish years:

- accepting criticism (although harsh criticism still guts me)

- realizing that I'm not perfect/that I can't be perfect/that no one is perfect (I'm still working on this one!)

- realizing that it's okay that not everyone is like me -- differences are what make life interesting!

- being able to admit that I am wrong (in any aspect of life)

- being able to "own up" to a negative behavior/action and take responsibility for the choices I make.

Things I need to work on (in addition to the first list!):

- realizing that I still have a lot left to work on (oh irony of this statement)

- self-care without having to rely on others to keep me accountable

- realizing that personal attributes such as intelligence, a sense of humor, or beauty are not necessary to still be a human being worthy of love, time, energy, and compassion

- basically, not being so hard on myself about everything.

The reason I titled this post "Learning from the negatives" is because it can be hard to listen to a litany of things that you struggle with, things you need to improve, things that you used to do or say that your friends/family/partner remember vividly (and bring up occasionally)... but within that forest of negative things you do or that you used to do, if you've been serious about working on "becoming your best you," I bet that you can find some strengths.

For example, yes, I struggle when other people are better at something than I am, especially if it's something that I really want to excel at doing.  However, even though I still get irritable when my husband beats me at a strategy game, for instance, I am now able to tell him (and myself), "Okay, I need a break, since you've just beaten me 6 or 7 times in a row." (What goes unsaid but is understood is that if we continued to play, I would go beyond my point of tolerance and would probably end up seething.)  Do I want to improve?  Of course I do!  But I also need to be able to recognize that hey, if we continue playing, I'm just going to keep getting angrier and angrier because I'm so competitive and I hate that I can't make my brain think like his brain thinks.

So in that example -- learning from the negative is being able to recognize that yes, while I still get testy if I am not as skilled as someone else is at something I feel I should be able to be good at... I've grown/matured to the point where now I know that I need to take a break.  A couple of years ago, I would've kept playing until I ended up so angry I wouldn't have talked to my husband (or, alternatively, I would've lashed out at him).

I have learned over the past couple of years some very important lessons.  Two of them are:

1) I need to learn to pick my battles, because there are some that I will never win.  If I try to tackle the battles that I won't/can't win, I will just end up angry or frustrated, and I will have solved nothing. (This is especially pertinent when it comes to discussing things with my husband.  Sometimes it's because of his concrete thinking that I know I can't "win" -- because my explanations for why I need what I need are not concrete enough for him.  And sometimes it's just because of us having different upbringings and different beliefs about some stuff -- e.g., I grew up having a physical done every year.  He didn't.  Because of that, as an adult, I view having check-ups as being fairly important -- if not yearly, then at least semi-regularly... but he thinks entirely differently than I do and nothing I say will change his mind.)

2) I can learn to respond, rather than react.  This is a very, very important lesson -- not just because of the fact I'm a social worker, but it's also pertinent in my personal life.  When my husband listed some negative things about me tonight (although they were/are true, it's still not pleasant to listen to them!), I could've chosen to react by lashing out at him and tell him to "stop being historical."*  Or, alternatively, I could respond by sitting back and processing what he said, before saying anything.  Thankfully, I chose the latter (and later asked him to list two positives about me, since he self-admits that it is easier for him to criticize than to compliment).

From socialworkhelper.com

* "Being historical" is a phrase that my husband and I learned in premarital counseling.  Basically, what it means is that when an argument occurs, instead of sticking to the actual current events that are causing the argument to occur, one or both of the people involved in the argument will start pulling from the past.  An example of an argument that is historical is as follows:

Wife: I can't believe that you didn't gas up the car today!  You know I hate it when the gas tank goes below a quarter full, and I have to leave really early tomorrow morning!

Husband: I was really busy with work and didn't think to.

Wife: How could you not think to?  The gas station is right on your way home from work and I've told you time and again to please gas the car up when the tank is low.  Remember that time that I had to drive to a conference and because the cat was sick and you forgot to take him to the vet's the day before as I'd scheduled, I was late leaving since I had to go pick up his medicine... and I ran out of gas three miles outside of town since you didn't gas the car up?

Husband: Honey, that was four years ago...

Wife: I don't care!!  You still need to take responsibility for the gas tank when you've had the car last and you know I have to leave early and drive a lot the next day!

Okay, granted, that's a little bit of a silly example... but hopefully you get the picture. (And yes, it is an entirely made up argument... while my husband and I have had our share of silly arguments, thankfully we've never argued about filling up the gas tank in our car!!)

Over and out for the night~
Addison.

24 days... but who's counting?

In just 24 days, I will be done with classes.  It's hard to keep everything in perspective at this point in my education; I know that I'm not alone in feeling extremely stressed.  Everyone in my cohort is feeling the tension of the final few weeks of school.  Of course, it doesn't help that this semester, 90% of the assignments for both of the classes we have this semester are due in the next 3 weeks.

24 days, though.  Just 24 days.  I can do this.  But then I look beyond being done with classes... beyond seeing what grades I get this semester and what my final GPA is for grad school... beyond the stress of graduation... and I realize that I really do not feel ready to face the Real World as a Real Adult with a Real Job.

It's kind of a terrifying prospect.

I've been in higher ed for the past 11 years -- well, 9 years if you don't count the two years I took off from school between graduating with my Bachelor's and starting my Master's.  But seriously -- even 9 years of higher ed... that's a lot.

Friends of mine have said that the transition from being a student to being a Real Adult is difficult.  However, I hope it won't be as difficult for me as it could have been.  The only actual change that will occur is that instead of taking classes, I'll be working.  I already am married, have lived in an apartment and have had to deal with "Adult Things" -- such as paying rent, paying bills, servicing my car, scheduling doctor's appointments, etc. -- ever since I got married in 2008.

Still, it's going to be a tough transition.  I don't do well with change, usually, and I absolutely hate being "new" at anything.  Although I've been interning for the past 6 months at the agency that will (hopefully) be hiring me, I still haven't had the full responsibilities that a therapist there has.  I feel like I've gotten a very good sense of what a job as a mobile therapist/behavioral specialist consultant (MT/BSC) is like, but there are still things I'll need to learn how to do.  And some of those things -- such as writing a treatment plan for a new client -- I will only learn by doing them myself, rather than watching someone else do them.

24 days.  576 hours.  34,500 minutes.  2,070,000 seconds.

But who's counting?

From galleryhip.com

It's so hard to be patient sometimes, isn't it?  Especially when it feels like the old adage is true: that the grass really is greener on the other side.

But the fact is -- it's still going to be life.  "Well, duh, of course it is," you say.  Wait a moment... let me explain what I mean.

The two changes that will be the most significant for me will be the fact that first, I will be working (and will have a degree that actually means something!).  And second, I will be earning money.

But those things don't really change the fact that it'll still be life, with its ups and downs and good parts and bad parts.

It also doesn't really change the fact that I am who I am, that I'll still be the me I've always been.

Sometimes it feels like people try to hide behind their degrees, the letters after their last name, their titles.  In 24 days I will be still be Addison, but I'll be Addison X., MSW.  And hopefully in a few months, I'll be Addison X., LMSW.  And then in another few years, hopefully I'll be Addison X., LCSW.

But I'll still be me.  Now, or 24 days from now, or 24 years from now.

Learning doesn't end when school does.

From quotesdump.com

In fact, I hope I never stop learning.  As cheesy as it sounds, I do believe that the day we stop learning is the day we die.  We may not be physically dead... but when we stop learning, a part of us dies.

I hope I will be continuously curious about life.  I hope I will always want to learn more, more, more.  I hope that my thirst for knowledge will never be quenched.

I can tell you right now that I am 95% sure that for the first year post-grad school, I'm not going to miss school at all.  But after that first year... yeah.  There's going to be that longing to be back in the classroom.

Maybe that's when I'll see about teaching as an adjunct.  Who knows what the future will bring?

24 days...

Remembering how to breathe,
~ Addison.

Tapping into creativity.

It strikes me as rather oddly humorous (and ironic) that although creative endeavors are so important to me -- and such a very intrinsic part of who I am as a human being -- I still have the ability (and additionally, sometimes the desire) to bury that part of myself, to ignore it, to flee from it.

Why is this?  Why do I feel the need to disguise my creativity?

For example, although I don't consider myself to be a musician, per se, I've been classically trained on piano, violin, and viola.  I started taking piano lessons 21 years ago... and I haven't looked back since.  After I had played piano for some 3 years, I asked my parents if I could add violin.  I don't really remember why I wanted to play violin so badly, but although piano was enjoyable, I fell in love with my violin.  Then, when I was 12 and had been playing violin for 3 years or so, my violin teacher (who happens to be a violist who also knows violin) was selling her old viola... and I jumped on that and asked my parents if I could add viola lessons to my ever-growing list of instrument lessons.  They agreed, and so I began to learn viola.

Now, 15 years later, not only do I own a performance violin (which is different from a student violin in that performance violins are crafted with much more care), but I own my violin teacher's old viola.  I also have a keyboard here in the apartment (although it really is nowhere near a replacement for a piano... I'd much rather have a piano, but no room and also no money for that right now).  Additionally, in the past 5 years, I've also accumulated a gorgeous cello with the intent to either teach myself (which I believe I could do to a point) and a relatively cheap guitar.

I've also taught music lessons for the past 12 years.  Man, that makes me sound older than I am... ah well.  I've taught violin to kids and adults of all ages, and there was a brief stint where I also taught piano.  I love teaching, I love the "lightbulb moments" where I can see a technique suddenly make sense to a student, I love watching my students grow and become more confident violinists.

But in the past 3 years, especially, I have let the musical part of myself slide.  I haven't played my instruments as much as I used to... I haven't advertised for more students... I haven't sought out fellow musicians to "talk shop" with.

I miss that.

My husband, as awesome of a guy as he is, just isn't creative.  At least, not in the typical sense.  I'm a musician (let's face it -- I might not be professional, but I think I can finally claim that title), I'm a wannabe writer, I'm a blogger, and I love doing artistic things like sketching (although for that, I have not ever had lessons so there is no pressure to be perfect!).  I also have a goal of getting back into dancing -- I took ballet lessons for 8 years when I was younger, and even though I might not be able to do ballet again, I want to feel present in my body and be able to do expressive dance or jazz or something like that.

Why am I writing about this on a social work blog, though?

Because creativity helps.  Not just through art therapy or music therapy or movement therapy -- but for the therapist, for the social worker, to tap into his or her creative side... that is so very important.

I'm not talking about using it on the job, necessarily, although people have suggested that I find a way to incorporate my love of music and writing into my job.

I'm talking about using it, if you will, as a set of coping skills.  For you, the therapist.

I always feel better after I write a journal or blog entry.  Writing has a way of soothing me in a way that nothing else does.  I have also written fiction and poetry, but journaling/blogging about "real-time" occurrences is easier for me, usually.

Sketching is good for when I want to do something creative but don't want to feel as though I must be perfect.  It takes me perhaps 15-20 minutes to do a rough sketch of a photo, and sure, it won't be wonderful and amazing, but it's creative and it's fun and it's my way of connecting to my inner artist when I don't have time to pull out my instruments or sit down and write some fiction/poetry.

Music -- recently, I downloaded Audacity, which is free audio recording software.  I've been playing around with it -- although I've never had voice lessons, it's been interesting to record myself singing and to learn from what I hear on the recorded tracks.  I sound a hell of a lot better than I thought I did, but there is definitely room for improvement.  Although I only record myself singing when I'm alone, and I don't really have any desire to share anything I've recorded until I can clean them up a little bit (i.e., learn how to use more than just the "record," "pause," and "play" buttons on Audacity), it's still an outlet for me.

Dance -- it is hard for me to feel okay being in my body sometimes, but over the past few months, I've been experimenting when I am home alone with expressive dance.  That probably sounds silly, and I would be mortified if anyone ever saw me, but it's almost a relief to do something like that.  To let me express emotions that are otherwise pent up inside, with movement and connection to the music... I don't know how to explain it.  It's just relaxing, even though at the same time, I know I'm not a wonderfully gifted dancer.

So -- what are some of your creative outlets?  Have you caught yourself running from allowing yourself to be creative, or do you set aside time every day to be creative?

Cheers!
~Addison.