From Block to Breakthrough

Writer’s block (such a dreaded phrase) can feel like an incurable affliction. If you’re like me, inspiration shows up at the worst possible moments—behind the wheel, running errands, hauling groceries, with fragments of beautiful prose and scraps of poetry whirling around while I can’t write them down. Then, when I finally sit at my desk in the quiet of early morning or late at night, nothing. Blank. As if my creativity slipped out the back door while laughing at me.

For years after college, I thought this meant I was lazy or maybe that I’d lost whatever “gift” I’d once had. But I eventually realized writer’s block isn’t about talent at all—it’s emotional. For me, it was a full-body freeze, the deer-in-the-headlights kind, where your brain screams “go!” but your body won’t move. The day I understood the block wasn’t a death sentence for my creativity but a call for compassion, courage, and comfort, things shifted. I started building my life around writing again. And strangely enough, I’m grateful for it now. Writer’s block forced me to invent practices that made me more consistent, kinder to myself, and even more joyful about creating.

Here are the blocks that nearly did me in, and the compassionate strategies that helped me soften, surrender, and keep going.

The Awful Blocks

Perfectionism

Somewhere along the way, in years of classrooms, grades, family dynamics, chasing the gold star, I got it seriously twisted. I believed that creativity was another place to “achieve.” In a culture where mistakes mean punishment, perfectionism became my guardrail. If it wasn’t good, it wasn’t worth doing. And surprise, surprise: that killed my creative well.

Exhaustion

After perfectionism came exhaustion, the natural crash. I even went through a year where I didn’t dream. For a writer who had always mined dreams for story ideas, that felt like the well had permanently dried up. The worst part? I blamed myself for not having energy, when really I was just a plant in the wrong garden. Everyone around me seemed to thrive in the fast lane, and I was wilting. Moving from the city to a small town saved me. Once I started building a life that filled me instead of draining me, creativity came trickling back, like tiny green shoots poking up after a long winter.

Judgment

And then there was judgment: the final boss. Judgment was hardwired into me, and for years, I turned it inward until it chewed me up. My entire identity was wrapped in achievement. I ignored that my truest self was sensitive, silly, prone to mistakes, and not built to crave endless applause. Changing that took work. A lot of it. But eventually I found a way to redirect my judgment, like rerouting stormwater into a river. Instead of drowning me, it became fuel: churning, forceful, life-giving.

Strategies for Moving Through Blocks

At first, the practices I tried felt silly, awkward, even embarrassing. But I learned that discomfort is just energy wearing the wrong hat. Once I reframed it, those shaky little practices became the scaffolding of my writing life.

Freewriting

Start small, but start. My first freewrites were in a tiny notebook, just one page and double-spaced. Every word felt like garbage. I judged every line. But I kept going. I carried that notebook everywhere and filled it while at gas stations, in coffee shops, or while waiting in parking lots. A year later, I graduated to a big mixed-media sketchbook, where doodles and sketches spilled between my scribbles. Nobody reads these notebooks. They’re messy and private but absolutely essential.

Reframing Self-Criticism

Find your mantra. Mine is: “The stupid first draft.” It’s part self-mockery, part permission slip. I’m not fighting my inner critic so much as tricking it into laughing at itself long enough to let me get words on the page.

Ritual Practices

Because I read tarot, I’ll sometimes pull a card before writing. The card usually mirrors my mood, or shoves me in a new direction I never expected. Both are useful. Other days, when I’m really stuck, I just move. I throw on some ridiculous childhood song and jump around like I’m twelve. Shake the arms, wiggle the hips, stomp a little. It looks absurd, but it works. Movement untangles the knots. One of the worst leftovers from our school system is how it taught us to sit still for hours, as if creativity only happens in our heads. Now I know better: writing is a body practice, too. I even added a walking pad under my desk, and ideas flow differently when my feet are moving.

If you’re blocked right now, you might be reading this and thinking, yeah, but I’m the exception. Nothing will work for me. I really am a failure.

I thought the same thing. For years. Until one day, I decided I was done living with regret. Here’s what I learned: writer’s block isn’t weakness: it’s invitation. It asks you to stop, recalibrate, and learn to trust yourself again. Stumbles, mistakes, “bad” drafts, these aren’t failures. They’re the path. You already have what you need. Bravery, compassion, persistence — they’re muscles, and they grow every time you sit down to write.

The world doesn’t need your self-doubt. It needs your art.