You're Allowed to Be Happy: A Creative Practice for Mothers
It's Thanksgiving weekend as I write this, and I'm struck by the weight of time passing.
I held my ten-year-old this weekend thinking how long till you're more surly than sweet? Pre-teen years are no joke.
I watched my six-year-old jump with glee as my mom arrived for the weekend, and I wondered: how long till that innocent excitement drifts away?
I can remember my oldest being four, thinking the toddler years would never end. Now I can't remember when they did, or the last time I bathed him, wore him in the carrier, held his hand as we walked, or felt him crawl into my lap just to be close.
Because of their age gap, I'm painfully aware of time passing, of firsts and lasts being experienced in real time.
This awareness can make you feel like you need to cherish every single moment. Like you're failing if you're not present and grateful every second.
And… I'm also aware of how hard those younger years were.
How they needed me all the time, all of me, all the time.
How fucking loud they were (well, still are).
How they couldn't let me have even one moment that was just mine.
How it took two hours to get them the fuck to sleep.
All of this can leave us as mothers conflicted about time, presence, and our own worth.
Maybe you're like me, one foot in pre-pre-teen territory, one foot just leaving the toddler years. Maybe your kids are growing faster than you're ready for. Maybe the person you were before motherhood feels like a stranger you pass in the hall at 3am. Or maybe you're just fucking tired and want to feel something other than needed.
This feeling, the grief and beauty all tangled together, is exactly why I keep coming back to this Motherload session from a few years ago.
If you're in any kind of transition right now, what you need is a way to actually explore, experience, and express your emotions and maybe that thing could be this guided creative practice where you can feel both the heavy and the light.
A few years ago, when I led the Motherload session I'm sharing with you today, I was deep in my own transition. One kid heading into second grade, another in the threenager trenches, and a song that kept finding me, like it knew I needed to hear it.
And the message still matters, maybe more now: You're allowed to be happy.
The Song That Found Me
That fall, a song kept appearing in my shuffle, the kind that seems to find you rather than the other way around.
"Living from the heart can be scary at start.
I was praying for guidance when I found you.
Miracles happen if we allow them to."
When I Found You - Sia
The song was speaking to all the transitions I was navigating at the time: having little kids, watching those kids grow, seasons changing, parts of myself I was learning to love, chapters closing before I was ready.
Those sit-in-the-shit moments disguised as life lessons.
Music has always done this for me. It cracks something open that stays sealed during the regular chaos of our days. When I'm feeling stuck or numb or like I'm just going through the motions, the right song can unlock what I didn't even know I was holding.
Some days I can't listen to songs I used to love. They hit too close to something I'm not ready to feel. Some days I need heavy metal to do the dishes, other days only silence will do. The resistance or pull you feel toward certain music? That's your body telling you something.
That's when I knew: this song, and this process of letting music inform art-making, needed to be shared with other moms.
I started the Motherload session by giving everyone permission to skip the song entirely if it wasn't their jam. This was their time, their space. If the song brought up resistance, that was information too. Worth exploring, not pushing through.
For those of us who stayed, I played it twice.
During the first listen, I wrote down keywords that resonated: guidance, home, miracles, chaos, peace, mirror, praying.
Then I grabbed my favorite pastels (these water-soluble Caran d'Ache crayons that are so vivid you usually don't need more than one layer) and started covering the words with color. No plan. No "good art" goals. Following what wanted to happen.
The pen I'd used to write those keywords? Not water-safe.
When I added water to blend my pastels, the ink bled, changing my carefully chosen colors, making everything muddy.
And I was pissed.
For thirty seconds, I stared at this ruined thing, feeling that familiar perfectionist rage rising. The piece wasn't going to look how I'd imagined. The colors were wrong. The words were disappearing.
And then I thought: Screw it.
I'm just going to slop all this water on here and see what happens.
I drenched the paper. Let the colors run together. Layered wet over dry and dry over wet. Stopped controlling it and started following it instead.
Hearts started appearing.
I never draw hearts. Never. But this piece? Full of them. Lots and lots and lots of hearts, emerging from the mess I'd made by letting go.
Nothing about motherhood stays in the lines. Nothing about life follows our perfect plans. That bleeding ink was the whole metaphor playing out on the page, and instead of trying to fix it, I let it bleed.
When I stepped back from the art journal page (vibrant, chaotic, full of bleeding ink and unexpected hearts) six words came into my mom brain:
Bright. Open. Love. Sacred. Guidance. Trust.
These weren't words I chose. They emerged from the process, from the surrender, from allowing the art to be what it wanted to be.
Life bleeds into our perfect plans. Kids grow up when we're not ready. The world keeps spinning even when we need it to pause.
What if, instead of controlling all of that, we could slop some water on the whole thing and see what emerges?
Forcing would have been me trying to "fix" the bleeding ink. Covering it up. Starting over. Making it look how I thought it should look.
Allowing was letting it bleed and seeing what happened next.
The "mistake" was the whole point. The thing that "ruined" my art was what made it real.
Your turn to grab whatever's in your junk drawer: a dried-out Sharpie, your kid's crayons, that pen that only works if you lick it first.
Find a song that's been stopping you in your tracks. Let your hand move and see what happens when you stop trying to make it perfect.
Or watch what happened for me. Let my process give you permission to try yours.
Here's how to do this art journal practice:
Choose a song that's been finding you lately, one that makes you feel something
Listen once without doing anything.
On the second listen, write down words that resonate. Don't overthink it (because I know you’ll want to)
Grab whatever art supplies you have and start covering those words with color, marks, texture.
Notice when perfectionism shows up, then do the thing that "ruins" it anyway. Add too much water. Use clashing colors.
Step back. What six words describe your piece or this season you're in?
Watch the full session above and follow along.
Also, if you're a mom and in the thick of some shit and you're thinking "Yeah okay, Kayla. In what world?" I suggest you ask yourself these three questions:
These help you identify where you actually are versus where you want to be, and what's in your control right now:
Be honest: How do you feel right now?
How do you want to feel?
What's one thing you can do in the next hour to move closer to that feeling?
And maybe the answer is: you need to (re)start some therapy. Maybe you need more support than a blog post and an art practice can provide. And maybe that support could be with me.
What Are Your Six Words?
If you tried this practice, or if you're about to, I want to know: what six words would describe your piece or this season you're in?
Drop them in the comments. Let's build a collection of words that remind us we're not alone in these transitions.
Mine were: Bright. Open. Love. Sacred. Guidance. Trust.
What are yours?
You might also like:
Five ways expressive art helps you mother:
https://www.kaylahuszar.com/blog/5/20/5-ways-expressive-helps-you-mother?rq=expressive
When All You See is Black: The Journal Prompt That Could Change Everything for Moms: https://www.kaylahuszar.com/blog/annoyed-journal-prompt-moms
Coloring Books Aren’t Therapy… But They Might Help You Feel More Even Keel As a Mom: https://www.kaylahuszar.com/blog/art-therapy-coloring-book
P.S. If you want more of this - weekly create and chill open studio hours where we make art together, process emotions, and give ourselves permission to take up space - that's what The Motherload Membership is all about.
Pre-recorded courses on maternal mental health and creativity, a community chat space with mothers who get it, and a 45-minute 1:1 session with me in your first month. Learn more here
