When the Well Runs Dry

A personal note on depletion, growth, and why I'm choosing rest

First — thank you.

Thank you for reading my piece about completing my 11-year cancer journey. Writing it cracked something open in me, and I am still sitting with the tenderness of it. Your presence, your time, your kind words... they meant everything.

And because of that tenderness, I want to share something with you today. Something honest.

The world is a lot right now.

Costs are climbing. Uncertainty hums underneath everything. So many of us are carrying a kind of low-grade tension we can't quite name — a tiredness that doesn't go away after a good night's sleep.

I feel it too. But for me, it was more than what was happening out there.

I was running my own well dry.

Here's what I noticed.

I work part-time at the hospital as a Recreation Therapy Assistant. I work — honestly, more than part-time — on Make Art. Feel Better., rebuilding my website, creating courses, teaching in-person, and showing up consistently online. I love my husband, our three cats, and our home. I do the thousand quiet things that keep a life running.

And somewhere in all of that, I had stopped filling myself back up.

This isn't new territory for me. It's actually a lesson I've had to learn more than once.

I was raised to carry it quietly.

Like many of us, I was taught to hold the tiredness inside. To smile. To carry on. To never let them see you struggle.

I did this in my twenties, in a faith community with cult-like markers — rigid rules, shame woven into the everyday, no room for doubt or questions. I did it in a marriage where I stayed far too long because I was too afraid to speak my truth. I did it as an art teacher who had let perfectionism quietly swallow her entire life.

Each time, in the past, I waited too long. Until my body broke. Until I found myself in a deep, dark depression.

"But today was different. Today, I caught it before the crash."

After a call with my sister Terri this morning — one of the true anchors of my week — and a conversation with my husband this afternoon, I made a decision.

I am going to rest.

Real rest. The kind where I read because I want to. Listen to music. Watch something I love without guilt. And — most importantly — make art simply for myself. Not to teach. Not to demonstrate. Just to breathe and create.

Those 11 extra years reminded me of something.

Writing about finishing my cancer journey stirred it all back up. I was given years I was not promised. Eleven of them. And while it is absolutely my calling to guide others, to teach, to help people discover that they truly can Make Art. Feel Better. — those 11 years also reminded me that I deserve to be here fully.

Not hollowed out. Not depleted. Me, overflowing.

And now, gently, I turn this toward you.

How is your well?

Are you full? Are you running low? Are you smiling and carrying on when underneath, you are exhausted?

You matter. Your life is precious. We are only ever promised this moment — and I want it to be one lived from a place of love, joy, peace, and hope. Not from the scraping bottom of an empty well.

Take care of yourself today. Even in one small, quiet way.

That is enough. You are enough.

With so much love, Barbara 🌿

Make Art. Feel Better.

If this resonated with you, I'd love to hear how you are doing — drop a comment below or reply to this post. You are not alone in this.