That Time Life Hit the Fan

Let me tell you a story. Not the polished, Instagram-filtered version where everything wraps up neatly with a bow and a smiling selfie. This one’s messier. There were definitely tears. More wine than was reasonable. A few too many late nights muttering at my screen like a Victorian ghost. But somehow, I got through it, and came out more stubbornly hopeful on the other side.

So, here’s what happened.

A while back, life threw a rather hefty spanner into the works. My husband, Tony, my best friend, my music-obsessed partner-in-chaos, was diagnosed with liver cancer. Just like that, everything changed. And not in that poetic way people write about in novels, where the clouds part and you suddenly “see what really matters.” No, it was more like... trying to juggle flaming torches while someone shouted medical terms at me and the ground shifted underneath my feet.

Everything we thought we knew about our routines, our plans, our future, all of it had to be rewritten. Transplants, treatments, test results. Endless hospital visits. Waiting rooms that felt like alternate dimensions. And me, trying to keep everything else from collapsing while pretending (badly) that I wasn’t constantly terrified.

At the same time, I was running my online shops, designing digital products, trying to keep creativity alive and well in a brain that felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. I had Etsy listings to update, Facebook posts to write for clients, Midjourney prompts to test, newsletters to write, and Pinterest pins to make. All while fielding medical calls and figuring out how the heck to keep our lives semi-functional.

It wasn’t just one challenge. It was a pile-up. Like someone pressed the "add stress" button repeatedly and then walked away whistling a merry tune.

There were moments I truly thought about quitting. About closing everything down, crawling under the duvet, and binge-watching eight seasons of something escapist. But here’s the weird thing: in the middle of all that chaos, something stubborn sparked inside me. Not glamorous, not inspiring, just this gritty little voice that said, You’ve made it this far. Don’t give up now.

So I did what I always do when I feel like the world’s wobbling, I made a list.

It wasn’t fancy. Just a scrappy notebook page with bullet points like:

• Breathe.
• Answer messages (only the ones you have to).
• Keep the Etsy shop ticking.
• One design a day (if possible).
• Feed yourself something with a vitamin in it.
• Be kind to yourself, for heaven’s sake.

That list was embarrassingly basic. But it gave me an anchor. I couldn’t control the medical stuff, or the outcomes, or the waiting. But I could tick things off a list and trick my brain into feeling a bit less like a malfunctioning browser with 31 tabs open.

Little by little, I kept going, at my own pace.

Some days, all I managed was uploading one digital paper pack and calling that a win. Other days, I rode the wave of creative distraction; making new clipart, sorting Pinterest boards, writing weirdly comforting captions about foxes or flaming junk journal kits.

I gave myself permission to do it imperfectly. That was undoubtedly a big one.

There’s a kind of quiet strength in showing up for yourself when everything else is out of control. I started choosing grace over guilt. Some days I didn’t post anything on social. Some weeks I surprised myself with a bundle of new designs. It was inconsistent, but it was still movement. And movement felt like hope.

Support also came in unexpected forms. Lovely messages from customers who told me they loved my work. Fellow creators sharing stories of their own struggles. Friends in the community who just checked in. I didn’t always respond right away, but I read every word, and they mattered more than I can say.

There was one day, in particular, when I sat down with a glass of wine (probably the fourth of the day), looked around at our cluttered living room full of hospital paperwork and Etsy printouts, and thought, Okay, this is hard. But it’s not the end.

I think that’s what helped me most: by refusing to treat the hardest chapter like the final one.

Instead, I started reframing the challenge as a season. A rough one, yes. One full of unknowns. But seasons pass. They change. And maybe, just maybe, I could keep building something through it all, slowly, quietly, fiercely.

The creative work became a lifeline. It didn’t fix things, of course. But it gave me purpose. It reminded me that even on the worst days, I could still make something out of nothing. A new wallpaper pattern for a client. A digital tag sheet. A sarcastic farm t-shirt. It sounds small, but it felt like reclaiming little pockets of control.

And eventually, the fear started sharing space with something else: resolute determination.

Tony and I found our rhythms again; not the old ones, but new ones that worked for this version of life. We laughed more. We stopped sweating the small stuff. I let go of chasing perfect and focused on what felt meaningful, even if it was messy.

Looking back now, I don’t see that time as the worst. I see it as the season that taught me how tough I really am. How flexible my creativity can be. How much love lives in the smallest gestures. And how incredibly stubborn hope can be when you let it sit beside the grief. And it won't be over until Tony has his liver transplant.

So if you’re in the thick of something right now, if your own version of life’s chaos is trying to knock you flat, here’s what I learned:

You don’t have to be consistently impressive to keep going. You just have to be consistent-ish.

Routines help. Red wine helps more.

Creative work can be the soft place your brain lands when the rest of life feels like falling on hard concrete.

Let people in. Let them help. Let them witness your mess and tears.

And seriously, make a list. A long list. Even a ridiculous one. Especially a ridiculous one.

These days, things still wobble sometimes. That’s just life. But I know now I can handle more than I thought. And when the next challenge comes, because you know it will, I’ll face it with a glass of wine in hand, a cheeky caption ready to go, and the knowledge that even the hardest seasons don’t get to write my final chapter.

Not while I’ve still got designs to make, stories to tell, and a shop full of stubborn little hope-filled things to share.