Recovery as Creative Work: How I’m Using Rest to Rethink My Practice

How I’m rethinking my work (and life) after the Treehouse

There are seasons in creative work where everything feels full and buzzing and busy. And then there are seasons where life quietly taps you on the shoulder and says, “It’s time to slow down. It’s time to rethink.”

I’m in one of those seasons right now.

Recently, I made the decision to close the Treehouse Membership after three beautiful seasons. At the same time, I’m about to go into surgery on Monday (for diastasis recti, which has been causing me increasing back pain over the last 3 years), so I will be stepping back from my usual pace for several weeks while I recover.

It’s a lot of change at once. And instead of trying to push through it, I’m choosing to treat this moment as a pause—a chance to listen more closely to what wants to come next.

Closing Treehouse: Making Space for What’s Next

Treehouse was a special place: a cosy online space for aspiring picture book illustrators to learn, share their work, and grow together. I loved the energy of our weekly live calls, to hear what each of us was working on, and to also take part in each other's journeys, whether it was winning an award, working on a first publication, or putting together a portfolio, so many small and big wins that came out of that space.

But behind the scenes, I could see that the numbers weren’t quite where they needed to be to keep the membership sustainable long term. Running a membership well takes a lot of time, care, and emotional energy. It became clear that to honour both the members and myself, I needed to be honest about what was and wasn’t working.

Closing Treehouse wasn’t easy. It’s tempting to hold on to something simply because you’ve poured your heart into it. But one of the biggest lessons I keep learning—over and over—is that endings aren’t failures. They’re part of the creative cycle.

Sometimes you have to close one door so you can see the other doors you’ve been too busy to notice.

Surgery, Recovery, and Learning to Slow Down

As Treehouse was wrapping up, another chapter of my life needed attention: my health.

I’m heading into surgery, and if all goes to plan, my recovery will take up to six weeks. For someone who’s used to juggling courses, projects, emails, and new ideas all at once, the thought of being forced to slow down is both confronting and, if I’m honest, a little bit relieving.

This season will look different:

• More intentional rest, fewer deadlines
• More sketchbook time, less screen time
• More listening, less pushing

Instead of trying to “keep up” with everything, I’m giving myself permission to cocoon for a while—to let my body heal and to allow my mind to wander, daydream, and recalibrate.

I’ve learned over the years that creativity doesn’t only happen when we’re actively producing. It also happens in the quiet moments when we’re not “doing” anything: on walks, in the shower, when we’re half-asleep with a pencil still in our hand. Recovery, in its own way, is part of the creative process.

Listening for the “Next Thing”

I don’t have a neat, polished answer yet for what comes after Treehouse. And I’m trying to be okay with that.

Here’s what I do know:

• I love teaching picture book illustration and character design.
• I love creating courses that help people move from “I have no idea where to start” to “I’m actually doing this.”
• I love seeing students go from “I haven’t drawn in years” to “I’ve just signed my first book.”

Those things are not going anywhere.

But how I offer that work may shift. This pause is giving me space to ask questions like:

• What kind of teaching feels the most alive for me right now?
• How can I support students more deeply, without burning myself out?
• What projects have I quietly wanted to make for years, but never had time or space to begin?

I have a new project brewing in the background that I’ll share more about once it’s ready. For now, it’s living in my sketchbook, in my notes app, and somewhere in that hazy space between “idea” and “real thing in the world.”

And I’m letting that be enough.

Living in the In-Between

Many of us are uncomfortable with the in-between—the part where something has ended, but the next thing hasn’t fully appeared yet. We like clarity, labels, and tidy timelines.

But so much of creative life happens in the in-between:

• When you’ve finished one book, but the next idea is still a whisper
• When you’ve outgrown an old way of working, but the new way hasn’t taken shape
• When you know something needs to change, but you’re not sure what it will look like yet

That’s where I am right now. If you’re there too—in your art, your work, or your life—I want you to know you’re not alone.

This in-between time is not “wasted” time. It’s compost. The old experiences, projects, and versions of you are breaking down and quietly feeding whatever wants to grow next.

An invitation (for you, too)

As I move into this season of surgery and recovery, here’s what I’m gently inviting myself to do—and I invite you to consider it too:

• Notice how far you’ve come. It’s so easy to stare at the horizon and forget to look back at all the ground you’ve already covered.
• Allow something to end. Is there a project, expectation, or commitment you’ve outgrown? What might open up if you let it go?
• Make room for rest. Even a small pocket of time—ten quiet minutes with your sketchbook—can be a tiny act of creative recovery.
• Stay curious. You don’t have to know the full plan. Just follow the next tug of curiosity, one step at a time.

I’ll be a little quieter publicly over the next while, but I’m not disappearing. I’ll be sketching, resting, listening, and reshaping things behind the scenes so I can come back with fresh energy and new ways to support your picture book journey.

Thank you for being here—whether you’ve taken a class, joined a challenge, been part of Treehouse, or simply read along from your inbox. Your presence truly matters.

Here’s to the pauses, the pivots, and all the beautiful in-between spaces where the next chapter quietly begins.

With warmth,
Nina