The days I thought I’d lost my spark

Turns out, I was just cocooning.

The Cocoon Was the Lesson

For three days last week, I felt flat.
I couldn’t manage a creative thought or work on a painting if my life depended on it. It just wasn’t there.

Some might call it a creative block—maybe—but it felt deeper than that. I simply had no interest in anything. I was dull. Dull as a box of rocks.

And I know I’m not alone. We’ve all had those stretches when the spark disappears and the inner critic takes the mic.

My ego loves to pile on.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Why aren’t you being responsible?”
“Why are you so lazy?”

Pretty much my mother’s old soundtrack, replaying on a loop.
But here’s what I’ve learned: when my energy collapses like that, it’s not laziness—it’s a call to go inward.

You know that restless waiting.
The nights that feel longer than the day.
You nap but don’t rest.
You stare at the moon wondering when the fog will lift.
You tell yourself, “This shouldn’t be happening to me.”

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I did all of that. Until I finally gave in.

I became a bum.
Stayed in my pajamas, binged TV, and felt like a fraud.
Here I am writing to all of you lovely ladies about how to live a grander life—and I was completely flat.

I wish I could tell you it was a restful three days. It wasn’t. Sure, I napped here and there, but my nights were a revolving door—up and down, trips to the ladies’ room, and long stretches sitting at my bedroom window watching the moon. Just waiting.

I’m not good at waiting.

And I wish I had some neat little practice to pass along, but I didn’t. All I could do was surrender and remind myself that I wasn’t a bad person for letting the chores and the business sit on pause.

Then, about two hours after I gave myself a gentle talking-to—
“Monica Rose, you deserve a break. Stop and take a few beats.”—
it hit me.

The whole reason for the cocoon came into view.
It wasn’t punishment. It was protection.

My soul had pinned me down to reconcile something that had been stuck in my craw—something I’d been too busy to feel.
So I lit a candle, released that little bugger, and finally slept like a dog on a throw rug in front of a fireplace.

Just like a caterpillar, I wasn’t broken or blocked. I was dissolving.
My old rhythm, old pace, old energy—it all needed to melt before something new could take its place.

Two days later, I mustered the courage to broadcast live on Substack.
That was the new part.

And golly, it was easy—not hard at all—and the best part? It was fun.
My creative energy snapped back into focus. Ideas started popping like fireworks.
It felt almost sacred—like church.

I giggled, made a gumbo, watched a movie, and ate—yes, again—all while dictating new ideas into my phone.
If there’d been a spy camera on the ceiling, y’all would’ve thought I was crazy.
But I was back.

And that’s all that mattered.

The cocoon doesn’t apologize for being still.
It doesn’t compare itself to butterflies.
It rests, knowing it’s mid-transformation.

So that’s what I did. I let the quiet do its job.
And I can’t help but wonder—how short might that cocoon have been if I’d surrendered sooner?

When I finally let myself be held by nothingness, I came out with something better than a plan: peace.
Peace that my rhythm is mine.
Peace that rest is sacred.
Peace that transformation doesn’t have to be earned.

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