On Creative Sprints and Stolen Time

In which I dispense with resolutions.

I am full of ideas and empty of energy. The year has retreated in a flurry of sleep regressions, the acquisition and discarding of clothing and child-sized furniture that never seems to fit for long, and continual vain efforts to get a toddler to eat something other than oatmeal, again.

In software development there is a concept of "a Sprint." A period of time, usually a week or two, where a team of programmers focuses on getting one feature built and delivered to customers. Ideally, other distractions (like bugs that pop up, or new customer requests) are put aside until the Sprint is completed. Ideally. That isn't the case, in most teams. The more you know, the more you'd wonder how any tech companies survive.

I've been sprinting all year, creatively speaking, and they've been full of distractions. I've yet to feel finished on any one thing. I started this Substack, Motherlode, to write about what's in my heart. I started another, The Non-Toxic Kitchen, to write about what's not in our food. I started an Etsy store—twice—to share the homeschool materials I'm creating for my son. I'm really happy with what I've done so far, but I still don't feel accomplished.

All the time I've spent on these projects feels stolen. I sneak in a bit of writing while my toddler snacks, create a new letter tracing worksheet while he's watching cartoons. I'm building, brick by brick, but I can't see a foundation forming. Time is falling through the cracks.

It's almost five o'clock when I realize that today is December 31st. That it's the last day of the year—the last half of the last day of the year. I'm not ready for it to be over. I'm barely, mentally, past Christmas.

My kid is, as usual, resisting bedtime. The dim glow of his nightlight bathes the room in a pure red hue. It reminds me of the developing room in my old film studio—the slow and peaceful process of gently washing photo paper in a shallow tray, the development solution sloshing back and forth like waves at the seashore, slowly revealing an image in time.

I sit there in the red glow, dimmer than sunset, listening as my son's breathing finally starts to slow. In, out. A tiny, soft rushing, like waves over sand, gentle and continual.

A thought emerges—one that feels like a gentle nudge rather than a revelation: maybe it's okay that I don't feel finished. Maybe this stage of life isn't about neat endings or grand accomplishments. Maybe it's only about showing up, every day, and laying down one more brick, even if the foundation isn't fully visible yet.

Because the truth is, it is forming.

When I look back at the year, I see the evidence. The little wins tucked into stolen time. Recipes that made someone rethink what's on their plate. Worksheets printed by families I'll never meet but whose children are learning because of something I created. A message from one of you, telling me my words resonated, that they made you feel seen in your own beautiful, messy sprint of motherhood.

These things matter. They're small, but they're not insignificant. One little brick at a time.

As I think about the year ahead, I realize that maybe the goal isn't to "finish" anything but to keep building. To keep showing up, stealing the moments I can, and trusting that the bricks I lay will one day form something solid. Something meaningful—not just to me, but to my son, and maybe even to you.

So, here's to 2025—not as a year to conquer but one to approach with relentless grace. If you're in your own sprint, whether it's motherhood, a passion project, or simply trying to make it through the day, I hope you'll join me in celebrating the bricks we've laid, however uneven or incomplete they may seem.

If you're looking for ways to nourish yourself or your family, I hope you'll check out the recipes and tips at TheNonToxicKitchen.com. If you're looking for tools to inspire your little ones, I'd love for you to visit LittleLambLearns.com. And if you're here for the stories, I'll keep sharing mine, week by week, as honestly as I can.

Let's keep building together. Let's keep showing up. And let's remember that even in little bits of stolen time, we're building something lasting—something beautiful.

With gratitude,

Sue