Finding Freedom in a Year-Long Creative Journey Beyond Goals

Briana Brookins
Jan 1
3 min read

There was a moment when goals stopped feeling like invitations and started feeling like cages. The kind of cages that shrink the space around you until every step feels measured, every breath calculated. I realized I was chasing finish lines that left little room for the messy, unpredictable parts of creativity. That’s when I decided to try something different: a year-long creative project instead of a traditional goal.

The Weight of Goals

Goals have a way of shaping our time and energy. They promise clarity and achievement, but sometimes they come with strings attached. I noticed that when I set a goal, it often came with a deadline that felt more like a ticking clock than a gentle nudge. The pressure to complete, to check off, to prove progress made the process feel rushed. Creativity, by nature, resists being rushed.

I remember one particular goal: to write a short story every month. On paper, it seemed manageable. But as the weeks passed, the pressure mounted. The stories became tasks, and the joy of discovery faded. I found myself staring at blank pages, not because I lacked ideas, but because the goal had turned into a demand. The freedom to explore, to wander, to fail and try again was slipping away.

Eye-level view of a quiet desk with scattered notebooks and a pen — A quiet creative workspace with notebooks and pen

Embracing Spaciousness

Choosing a year-long project felt like opening a door to spaciousness. Instead of a finish line, I created a container—a gentle frame that held my creative work without squeezing it. The project was not about completing a set number of pieces or hitting a specific milestone. It was about showing up, day after day, week after week, with trust in the process.

This shift changed how I related to my work. There was no rush to produce something perfect or complete. Instead, I allowed ideas to simmer, to evolve slowly. Some days, I wrote a few lines; other days, I simply thought about the project. The continuity mattered more than the output. It was a quiet commitment to presence rather than performance.

Trusting the Process

Trust became the quiet companion of this year-long journey. Trust that the work would unfold in its own time. Trust that the gaps and pauses were part of the rhythm, not signs of failure. Trust that the project was bigger than any single moment of doubt or frustration.

This trust brought a surprising sense of freedom. Without the pressure of a goal’s deadline, I could follow curiosity wherever it led. Sometimes that meant detours into unexpected themes or styles. Other times it meant returning to old ideas with fresh eyes. The project became a living thing, shaped by my changing interests and moods.

Close-up view of a sketchbook with evolving drawings and notes — A close-up of a sketchbook showing evolving creative ideas

Continuity Over Completion

The year-long project also offered a sense of continuity that goals rarely provide. Goals often mark a start and an end, a before and after. But creativity is rarely so neat. It flows, ebbs, and returns in cycles. By committing to a year, I embraced this flow.

Each day added a small thread to the fabric of the project. Some threads were bright and bold, others subtle and quiet. Together, they formed a whole that felt richer than any single finished piece. The project became a companion through the year, a steady presence that adapted as I did.

A Quiet Insight

Choosing a container over a finish line changed how I see creative work. It’s not about racing to a destination but about inhabiting a space where ideas can breathe and grow. The container offers room for mistakes, for pauses, for unexpected turns. It invites patience and presence.

This approach doesn’t erase challenges or doubts. But it softens them, making space for trust and continuity. In the end, the freedom I found was not in crossing a finish line but in choosing a container that held the journey gently, without pressure or hurry.