I usually write here about textiles, about dyeing and stitching and the joy of making. This post is a little different. It is more personal, and a little vulnerable, because it is about the why behind the way I create. A recent question made me stop and think: How did you arrive at your intuitive way of working, and when did you know it was right for you?

The answer took me down a path I wasn’t expecting. To explain why I work the way I do, I have to talk about my journey with creativity, mental health, and more recently, the realisation that I am a neurodivergent artist. It is not a neat story, but it is an honest one.

Struggling to Become a Textile Artist

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been described as “a creative person.” I was the arty one at school, the one people expected to go on and do something with it. But the transition from art student to artist wasn’t straightforward. Deadlines were always a battle. I’d struggle to start, spiral into near meltdown territory, and then somehow pull something together at the last minute. My friends often felt frustrated because while they worked steadily and consistently, I was handing things in just in time, and still doing well.

I had my first panic attacks at art college. I’d been told that art school was where I’d finally find “my people,” but instead I felt like I didn’t fit at all. I struggled to make friends who truly got me. I developed fears about walking into certain rooms, found myself avoiding conversations with technicians, and sometimes couldn’t even make eye contact. I felt like a weirdo, and it chipped away at my confidence. I eventually dropped out.

I spent two years working and travelling before I went to university. With more life experience, I had grown in confidence, and making friends felt easier. But even there I repeated the same patterns: isolating myself, putting too much pressure on myself, missing out on things, then swinging to the other extreme - partying hard and neglecting my responsibilities.

I very nearly did not put up my degree show, and at the last minute I had to phone my family to come and help me because I was completely in a mess. I also dropped out of New Designers, a project that had taken a huge amount of organisation and fundraising, which meant disappointing people and letting down friends. I still have bad dreams about this, and the memory of it carries a heavy weight of shame and regret.

Teaching Art as a Career and Creative Outlet

Teaching seemed like a way to stay close to creativity while accepting that I could never truly belong to the world of professional artists. Supporting others gave me purpose, and I still made things in my spare time, but deep down I felt I had never reached my own potential. I looked at “real artists” with envy and intimidation. I felt like a fraud.

At the same time, teaching gave me something I had not had before, an answer to the dreaded question, “So, what do you do?” I could say, “I am an art teacher.” It was mostly a respected profession. With that answer, I felt I belonged in the category of professional and was accepted as such.

Living With Undiagnosed Neurodivergence

Through my late teens into my thirties, I tried to manage my mental health with therapy, antidepressants and lifestyle changes. But something always felt missing, like I did not have the right language for what I was experiencing. I felt strange; too sensitive, too emotional. Social interactions left me exhausted. Stress hit me harder than it seemed to hit others. Sometimes I could barely string sentences together without stuttering through tears.

And yet I kept going. I learned to cope with exercise, supportive friends, and rest when I could. But motherhood brought everything into sharp focus.

Motherhood and Losing Myself

I remember the early days so vividly, not quite reconciled with my new identity, the old me still there but buried, the new me sleep-deprived and consumed with endless piles of washing. I was absolutely in love with my newborn, but at the same time I felt a quiet grief for myself.

I was upset that I had not finished her baby quilt. I had imagined so many beautiful creative projects, but I did not have the energy, let alone the time. To most people, this seemed trivial, but for me, the ability to create has always been tied to my sense of self.

Then one December morning, unusually, I was the first one awake. I wanted to do something small, something Christmassy. I punched stars out of gold card and stitched them into a garland on my machine. It took an hour, no more. But I was present, calm, and full of joy. That simple act shifted something in me. It reminded me who I was.

punched gold stars sewn into a garland with plant dyed silk ribbons

Returning to Work and Breaking Down

If motherhood exposed the cracks in my coping strategies, returning to work broke them wide open. Even part-time, I felt torn in two directions; guilty if I gave more to school than my child, guilty if I gave more to my child than to school. My own needs did not even make the list. On non-teaching days, I caught up on marking or collapsed into exhaustion instead of doing anything restorative or creative.

I held on for a year and a term before unravelling. Over the Christmas holidays I cried most days, and by January I could not go back. I took three months off with stress. It was during that time, with space carved out unexpectedly, that I reconnected with my art practice in a way that felt urgent, healing, and necessary.

Discovering ADHD and Neurodiversity

Around the same time, a colleague began sharing her journey of discovering she had ADHD in her thirties. Listening to her experiences, I felt an almost painful recognition. For the first time, I could see myself reflected in someone else’s story.

The more I learned about ADHD, neurodiversity, and even autism, the more things began to click. It was validating to finally have a framework for behaviours and struggles I could not explain. But alongside the relief was grief. Grief for the years I had spent feeling broken, grief for the potential I might have fulfilled with earlier support, grief for the kindness I did not know I could have given myself.

My Superpowers and Struggles as a Neurodivergent Artist

Coming to terms with being neurodivergent has helped me see that many of the things I thought of as failings are simply part of how my brain works. Some of them still trip me up, but some are also strengths, the very qualities that make me the artist I am.

Superpowers

I am endlessly curious. I see connections everywhere, between memory, material, and metaphor.
I can hyperfocus. When I am deep in a piece, time disappears and I create things that surprise even me.
I have a strong sensitivity to texture and colour, which makes working with textiles feel like second nature.
I am empathetic. I can sit with other people’s stories, absorb them, and translate them into fabric and thread.

Struggles

Starting is often the hardest part. A blank canvas can paralyse me.
Time management feels slippery, deadlines either loom impossibly or do not exist in my brain until the last second.
Overwhelm is constant. Too many tasks, too much noise, and I shut down.
Shame creeps in when I cannot do the things others seem to manage so easily, from admin to simply feeding myself well.
People-pleasing is a big one. I often take on too many projects or commitments to avoid disappointing others, and I have learned to say no the hard way, sometimes after burnout.

Understanding these patterns has changed how I work. It has helped me give myself permission to create in a way that suits me, not a way that looks professional or correct.

Hand holding fabric circle over a sketchbook of textile art collages

Why I Create Intuitively as a Neurodivergent Artist

So how does this answer the original question, about why I work intuitively?

Because for years I wanted to be an artist, and the barrier was never my creativity. The barrier was being human in a world that did not make space for the way my brain works. On days when getting out of bed, eating, or forming sentences feels like climbing a mountain, having a way of making that is simple, tactile, and forgiving is a lifeline. Intuitive stitching means I do not have to overthink. I cannot get it wrong. I am not letting anyone down. It feeds my senses and soothes my mind.

Working this way helps me, profoundly. And sharing it helps too, even if there is still some shame and rawness in doing so. Because I know I am not the only one who struggles. If telling this story helps someone else, then it is worth the discomfort of being seen.

Gentle Tips for Creating on Hard Days

If you relate to this, here are a few small things that help me when I want to create but feel overwhelmed:

Keep materials close at hand. A small basket of scraps, thread, and scissors makes it easier to start.
Shrink the scale. Work on something tiny, a patch, a doodle stitch, a line of hand quilting. Finishing something small can be a boost.
Set a timer. Ten minutes of making is still making. Sometimes it leads to more, sometimes not, and that is okay.
Remove the pressure. Tell yourself it does not need to be good or finished. It only needs to exist.
Let your hands lead. Touch the fabric, fold it, stitch it without a plan. Trust that the process itself matters more than the outcome.

Closing Thoughts

Looking back, I can see that my way of creating was never a choice or a decision, it was a survival strategy that became an artistic method. Working intuitively allows me to be present, to stitch without judgement, and to find moments of calm even when life feels overwhelming.

I share this here because I know how isolating it can feel to struggle behind the scenes, while presenting a polished surface to the world. If any of this resonates with you, I hope it helps you feel less alone. Your way of creating, however messy or unconventional it may seem, is valid. In fact it might be your superpower.