I used to think productivity was momentum.
That creativity came from rhythm.
That focus required forward motion—something to aim at, something to build toward.
Then came cancer.
And suddenly, I found myself living in pause.
The pace that had once defined me—launching campaigns, leading teams, juggling creative projects—was replaced with hospital visits, surgeries, and silence. A different kind of calendar emerged. One filled with unconfirmed timelines and “we’ll know more soon.” One where progress wasn’t measured in wins, but in healing. In waiting.
Living in Limbo
If you’ve ever been in a holding pattern—whether from illness, burnout, or life’s unpredictability—you know that it messes with your mind. It stretches time. It distorts clarity. It makes you feel like you’ve fallen out of sync with the rest of the world.
During my initial recovery, there were months where the only thing on my calendar was “heal.”
No deliverables. No milestones. Just… space. Endless space.
And the longer that space lasted, the more my identity started to slip.
Who was I without the work?
What was I supposed to aim for, if everything meaningful had been paused?
How do you keep your creative mind alive when there’s nothing to build yet?
The Behavior of the Brain in Uncertainty
From a behavioral science standpoint, it makes sense.
Humans are wired to prefer bad news over no news. We crave resolution, even if it’s painful. Ambiguity, on the other hand, triggers anxiety. It taxes our mental resources. It shuts down our creative centers because uncertainty feels like a threat—and when our brains feel threatened, they don’t want to brainstorm. They want to brace for impact.
But here’s what I learned:
There’s power in naming the limbo.
There’s power in reframing what waiting can be.
Not Progress. Not Stagnation. Gestation.
Waiting is not nothing.
It’s not failure.
It’s not a gap to be ashamed of.
It’s gestation.
It’s incubation.
It’s the space where healing and becoming happen.
For me, that looked like this:
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I couldn’t create at full capacity. So I created in miniature—small thoughts, scribbled notes, melody fragments.
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I couldn’t strategize for long. So I zoomed in—tweaking my habits, revisiting old ideas with a new lens.
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I couldn’t focus on my future. So I started paying attention to my present—what I could feel, see, smell, and taste (when taste returned).
And somewhere in that quiet, my creativity didn’t disappear.
It evolved.
Why This Matters—Even If You’re Not in Recovery
If you’re a creative leader, you’ll face limbo too.
Not necessarily medical—but emotional, professional, existential.
Periods where things stall. When the path gets foggy. When nothing is clicking.
It’s tempting to push harder. To panic. To fill the space with noise.
But what if that space is necessary?
What if your next wave of clarity, or brilliance, or insight—needs that stillness first?
Let the Brain Breathe
I learned that creativity is not just about momentum.
It’s also about stillness.
About honoring the time it takes to process what can’t be rushed.
You don’t have to be in motion to be growing.
You don’t have to be visible to be changing.
You don’t have to be producing to be creative.
Sometimes, the most powerful shift you’ll make… happens while you’re standing still.
