untethered to expectation: what does creative freedom actually look like?

reflections on the pandemic and forced rest

In my adulthood I’ve approached work (jobs, school, volunteering, clubs, etc.) with a level of intensity I wasn’t always aware of. It took a very long time — arguably still an ongoing process — to realize that just because I am capable of doing something, it doesn’t necessarily deserve my full attention.

I continually felt like I was on a hamster wheel, in an infinite sprint and unable to slow down enough to relax, or ultimately get off. There are three distinct times in my memory of the past 17 years that I felt free of “the wheel” — the first was post-undergrad during a 6-month artist residency in Peru, the second was in the early pandemic when the world shut down, and the third is now, in this present moment.

The pandemic was a weirdly magical moment for my artist practice. Although it was a stressful and upsetting time, it also allowed me total creative freedom. Almost everyone, and not by choice, was forced to pause. There were no deadlines, commitments, expectations of productivity, or even basic mental readiness. Mental and emotional fatigue was met with compassion, as people were learning how to adapt and support each other from afar.

For me, it looked like this — I closed the shop and decided to quarantine in Maryland with my brother, sister-in-law, and 7-month-old nephew, Judah. I brought my 4-harness loom and set up in their guest room, piling my yarn on the wooden dresser and hanging my warping board from the bedroom door. Most days I played with Judah and we took long walks through the local cemetery. I wove, drank boxed wine, watched movies, and put together puzzles. There was an occasional family dance party. Sometimes in the afternoons I would rock Judah to sleep. Once we had a picnic.

But most significantly, I sat at my loom every day. I made cloth.

bedroom studio, March 2020

I come back to this moment — my creative pandemic — whenever I am feeling stuck or out of touch with my studio practice. When I yearn for freedom as the hamster wheel is spinning, I remember the days that were not centered on my inbox or to-do lists. The days that I did not wake up looking at my phone, rarely receiving an email because no one really needed me. My world shrank and in the process, so did the pressure of productivity. I gave myself permission to rest. In the expansiveness that unfolded once I paused, it became obvious — my creative energy was quietly linked to expectation, or lack thereof.

cemetery walk, May 2020

Some of these expectations are societal, but most are ones that I place on myself. I can grow the business, so I will. I can say yes, so I will. I can do it, so I will. I will just work harder, for longer hours and (often unintentionally) sacrifice other areas of my life. I will reach burnout and I will keep going, because I can.

The trap of the infinite sprint is that it leaves no space for creativity. I was unable to sit down at the loom unless it accomplished something other than just enjoying the process. I only had time for commissions (that would generate income) or weavings that would benefit the business (and ultimately generate income). Weaving simply to weave was a luxury, and I had unintentionally caged my own expression. This is why the pandemic was surprisingly freeing — all of those expectations vanished overnight. It turns out that if I have nothing “to do” I will choose to be creative, because it is a deeper calling within me. I am an artist.

bedroom weaving, April 2020

In 2026, I have been intentionally protecting my desire to pause from expectation, staying uncommitted to deadlines or promises. As someone who is wired to always be moving and building, I will catch myself obsessing over a project I want to launch or a yarn I want to source. I will remind myself to pause and consider — I can do this, but do I want to?

In part, this is why I have taken so long to turn on paid subscribers (and the expectation that may bring) for memory cloth. The greatest joy of this project so far is that it’s been for me. I can write what I’m thinking about or what I’m most interested in, and I can release posts whenever I feel like it. If my daughter gets sick and I can’t touch my computer for days on end, I’m not letting anyone down. If ultimately I want to stop creating content, I can. I won’t even need to tell anyone — I can simply stop posting.

If I allow myself to trace the way this makes me feel, spreading from my chest outward, all the way down to the tips of my fingers — it’s freedom and it’s gratitude.

Gently waking up, this is the journey of returning to myself.

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So, paid subscribers — why is this now an option?

I shared this post with a close friend and they said, "Rachel, you can still do whatever you want and get paid." This made me laugh and the sentiment stuck. So many of you have already pledged to this project without even knowing what it will turn into. None of you have placed an expectation on me, merely supporting my desire to share in this format. So thank you — whether you're a free or paid subscriber — for being here and following along.

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I know colleagues who felt creatively paralyzed by the pandemic and all the social stress it created, and in isolation their art practices suffered. For some, it took years to recover and unfortunately had the opposite effect. To those friends I say: I see you and I understand. I'm sorry that happened.