Every now and then I go back and read something I wrote a few years ago.

Recently, I went back through a series of blogs about writing my memoir and realised something I couldn’t see at the time.

I had been leaving myself breadcrumbs.

The first was on 25 October 2019: “I’ve decided I’m going to write my memoir.”

There it was. The dream, written down in an email.

Then came March 2024, when apparently having a dream wasn’t enough and I needed a plan. A lot of information about exactly how I was going to write my memoir. Stephen King had an opinion. My husband was basically channeling Nike: just do it!

Then came the reality.

Writing was hard.

I got overwhelmed. I stopped. I restarted. I went to New York. I stopped again. I had days of zero words followed by one Sunday when I sat down and wrote 3,924 words.

I had a monkey mind telling me it wouldn’t be any good.

I had an albatross around my neck.

I had a cork board with 21 chapter post-its.

And, of course, stationery. 😂

By May, I had learned that my creative process wasn’t linear. I hadn’t completed my 90-day challenge — only 70 days — but I had learned something much more important: compassion and acceptance were a healthier place for me than relentless productivity.

At the time, I thought I was trying to finish my memoir.

Looking back, I think I was learning how to become the person who could write it.

And then, in December 2024, something rather wonderful happened.

Without fully consciously planning it, I set myself another challenge: finish a book and release it on Friday the 13th.

Fifty-four days later, I did it.

Perhaps the biggest lesson was that I stopped trying to become a writer by doing it “right” and started learning how I actually write.

I began by looking outside myself for the formula — Stephen King’s advice, 90-day challenges, word counts, plans and productivity — and slowly discovered that my creative process is my own.

I don’t always need to push harder.

Stopping doesn’t mean I’ve failed.

I can return. I can begin again. I can work with myself rather than against myself.

I also learned what sustains me.

Self-care. Friendship. Time away. Replenishing myself.

I was doing these things along the way, almost unconsciously. They weren’t part of some carefully designed creative practice. I simply kept finding my way back to the things that gave me energy, connection and space to begin again.

And perhaps most importantly, I learned to trust myself as a creative person.

When I look back now, I can see the breadcrumbs.

The dream. The plans. The overwhelm. The stopping. The starting. The learning. The friendships. The replenishing. The ridiculous cork board.

None of it was wasted.

I just couldn’t see the path while I was walking it.

Maybe that’s how creative journeys work.

We follow the breadcrumbs.

And only later do we turn around and realise how far we’ve come.