Why We Really Create

As the seasons change and the air grows cooler, I find myself spending more time indoors and in the studio. Life slows down, the temperature drops, and there is a quiet comfort in huddling under a blanket with a hot cup of cocoa or coffee in hand. The world outside seems to soften, its edges less sharp, and in that gentle stillness, my thoughts come alive. Ideas, questions, and memories drift through my mind, nudging me to capture them on paper before they slip away.

Lately, one thought has been returning again and again: why do we really create? Not just the obvious answers—the joy, the calm, the sense of purpose—but the deeper, more elusive reasons that push us to make, to shape, to translate something from the unseen into form. It’s a question that has guided my work, my teaching, and my life more than I realised.

People often say that creativity is “good for us”, that it grounds us, that it is a healthy outlet. Those reasons are true, and I have believed them myself, yet for me, creativity reaches further than that. Creating is far more than a pleasant activity; it is instinctive, almost necessary, as if some inner part of me is always waiting to be shaped, expressed or understood. I do not create simply because it is enjoyable. I create because it is how I make sense of myself and the world around me. I create because something within me insists on being translated into form. Over time, I’ve realised that this instinct is not merely a personal urge; it is a deeply human one. When we make things, we are not only producing work—we are shaping our inner world into something we can finally see.

Creation as a Mirror

Whenever I am in the middle of making, hands deep in the process, mind narrowing into that familiar, quiet focus, I meet parts of myself I cannot reach any other way. My work has always been a mirror. It reflects my patience, my restlessness, the knots I am trying to untangle, the ideas that keep tugging at me. Even when I am not aware of what I am thinking or feeling, my work somehow knows before I do.

There is a strange clarity in that. A feedback loop. I make something, then it shows me who I am right now. That reflection has shaped my life more than any plan or intention ever could.

Creation as Meaning-Making

Trying to explain the meaning of making is like trying to pin down smoke. It shifts the moment you look at it. But I know this: whenever I create, I am making sense of my world.

There is a point in the process, somewhere between the first spark and the messy middle, when everything that felt chaotic suddenly aligns just enough to feel graspable. Not solved, not simplified, just held. Making gives me a language for what is otherwise wordless. It is how I sort through the unsteady parts of being human and find my bearings again.

And that meaning-making has changed me. It has made me braver and more honest. It has given me a way to sit with what is uncomfortable and celebrate what is luminous.

The Transformation Within the Process

For a long time I thought creating was about the final thing, the finished piece, the polished outcome. But the deeper I go into my practice, the more I see that the real transformation happens in the process.

Something shifts inside us when we are in that space. Attention sharpens. Time melts a little. The inner critic loses volume just long enough for intuition to speak. We become more porous, more receptive to possibility.

It is a small alchemy, almost invisible, but it changes who we are. And those quiet internal shifts accumulate over years until you look back and see that the act of making has shaped your entire way of moving through the world.

Leaving Home and Finding Home Through Making

If I trace the major turns in my life—career decisions, relationships, opportunities, even the way I understand home and belonging—I can see how creating guided each one.

Leaving my homeland at such a young age left me with a lifelong question tucked under my skin: Where is home now? Suddenly home was not something solid or guaranteed; it became an idea I had to reconstruct for myself. Making became the place where I worked through that disorientation. Through my work, I pieced together identity, culture and memory. I learned to sit in the in-between and make something out of it.

Creativity trained me to think differently, to notice the subtle, to chase the unusual. It gave me the courage to follow paths that did not exist yet, to define myself across cultures, and to build what I needed when I could not find it. In every new place, the act of creating became my compass, pointing me towards a version of home I could carry, grow and remake.

What We Get From Creating

People sometimes ask what I “get out” of making. And while I could list the usual things—fulfilment, joy, growth, purpose—those do not quite capture it.

What I really get is a deeper sense of self. A version of me who pays attention. A version who experiments, tries again, responds rather than reacts. A version who stays curious, even when life feels unpredictable.

And when I teach, I get to witness that same shift in others—the exact moment they realise they are not just making something; they are discovering something about themselves. That moment never stops feeling extraordinary. It is one of the biggest reasons I continue to create and to teach.

Why We Create

In the end, I think we create because it changes us. Because it allows us to give shape to the things that, inside us, feel shapeless. Because it turns inner experience into something shareable, something that connects us.

We create because it helps us understand who we are and who we are becoming. Because it is how we make meaning. Because it is how we make home.

We create because it is the most honest way we know to be alive.

Returning to the Quiet Moments

And now, as I sit in the soft glow of the studio lights, evening shadows stretching long across the floor, I feel the gentle rhythm of creation all around me. The small, ordinary acts—holding a brush, carving a block, folding paper to make a sketchbook, listening to the quiet hum of my thoughts—remind me why we create. It is not always monumental or for others to see. Often, it is private, intimate, and deeply ordinary. Yet in those moments, we discover something extraordinary: a way to translate the invisible, to understand ourselves, and to connect with the world.

Creation, in its quiet persistence, becomes both a compass and a home. It carries us, shapes us, and invites us to return again and again to the simple joy of making, noticing, and being alive.

Until next time,

Moji x