The Creative Nest

There’s a certain kind of fantasy we all have at some point—the “run away from everything” kind. You know the one. It usually shows up on a Tuesday when your email won’t stop pinging, your laundry is judging you from across the room, and you briefly consider becoming someone who lives in a tiny coastal town where no one knows your name and your biggest responsibility is deciding between coffee or tea. It feels freeing just thinking about it. Romantic, even. Like maybe if we could just step out of our lives for a bit, everything would reset and fall into place. But here’s the thing—running away, in real life, doesn’t always come from a place of choice. Sometimes, for people living with dementia, there’s this very real pull to “go home”… even when they are home. It’s not a dramatic escape or a whimsical fresh start. It’s a deep, internal sense that where they are doesn’t quite match what they feel. Their reality is shifting, and in that space, the need to go—somewhere that feels right...

I’ve been thinking a lot about what happens after something heavy loosens its grip. Not the crisis itself. Not the stress while it’s happening. But the quiet moment when you realize: oh… this might actually be okay now. That kind of relief can feel strange. Sometimes it shows up as a deep exhale you didn’t know you were holding. Sometimes it looks like tears — even though nothing “bad” just happened. Sometimes it’s a burst of energy. Other times, total exhaustion. I’ve noticed that big relief doesn’t always feel joyful right away. It can feel disorienting. Like your nervous system is still pacing the room, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And then there’s the mental part: Do I celebrate? Do I rest? Do I stay cautious? Do I finally let myself imagine what comes next? I think we don’t talk enough about this in-between space — the space where something important resolves, but your heart and body haven’t quite caught up yet. So I’m curious… How do you process...