THERAPY IN ART: A PERSONAL PERSPECTIVE ON THE CREATIVE PROCESS

Therapy in Art: A Personal Perspective on the Creative Process

I have been exploring the world of art therapy for decades. My shrink absolutely loves it when I show her my latest projects, and honestly, so do I—even though I’m the first to admit I’m not particularly "good" at it. But talent was never the point. These silly little creative things simply make me feel good, and that is more than enough reason for them to exist.

For me, creating isn't a rigid chore, a scheduled block on a calendar, or an assignment I am required to complete. It is an act of proactive management for an intense, sudden urge to make things that I’ve carried since childhood. When I was a kid, I ruined quite a few tables and chairs in my parents' home office, simply because I didn't know how to fight or direct that sudden, overwhelming impulse to build, color, or alter the space around me.

As an adult, I take it as part of my personal responsibilities to ensure I always have an outlet ready to catch that energy. I don’t try to restrict or schedule it; instead, I make sure the materials are always physically available so that whenever I feel like diving in, I can.

Because artificial overhead lights tend to hurt my head, I keep my house relatively dark. This means my creative process is completely tethered to the sun. I can only truly work on my projects when there is natural light streaming through the windows. This physical limitation has actually turned into a beautiful therapeutic ritual: it forces me to slow down and sit by the window, gathering a little extra vitamin D while letting the natural daylight guide my hands.

I’ve built a dedicated psychological space in my mind zone labeled simply: "Just when I want, how I want."

Within this zone, I do whatever I feel like doing in the moment. My creative table is an open buffet of low-pressure outlets. Some days it’s painting or folding paper; other days it’s the neat, satisfying rhythm of cross-stitch, paint-by-numbers, diamond jewel placement, or brushing color onto a plain ceramic coin bank. If a project loses its pull, I don't force it—I leave it half-finished right where it is and walk away without an ounce of guilt. It is unstructured, entirely on my terms, and completely mine. And that is exactly why it works.

Cross-Stitch: The Pre-Structured Brain Rest

When a sudden urge to make something hits, our brains don't always have the leftover energy to invent a design from scratch. This is where pre-structured crafts like cross-stitch become the ultimate sanctuary for a mentally exhausted mind. Shifting your focus onto a predefined grid of colors and symbols acts like an immediate off-switch for ambient anxiety or an upsetting day. You aren't forcing yourself to solve a puzzle; you are simply stitching.

From a purely practical standpoint, cross-stitch is the ultimate low-maintenance therapy. Unlike paint, which dries out, crusts over, and ruins brushes if you leave it exposed for too long, embroidery floss is entirely patient. It will sit in your basket for days, weeks, or months, completely unchanged. If you suddenly need to walk away mid-project, you can drop your needle exactly where it is without an ounce of panic.

While standard advice usually suggests beginners stick to tiny, bite-sized cross-stitch kits, my personal recommendation is to do the exact opposite: go big. Investing in a massive canvas transforms the craft into a reliable, long-term anchor. You don't have to worry about finishing a tiny kit in one night and face the decision fatigue of finding a new project tomorrow. To keep it manageable, ditch the tight, rigid hoops. Instead, keep your canvas in a protective tube, roll the fabric tightly in your hands to navigate across the grid, and work section by section, traveling row after row.

Paint-by-Numbers: The Relief of the Pre-Mapped Path

I love painting, but sometimes my mind is simply too tired to figure out what to paint. On those days, the hardest part of creativity isn't the brushwork; it’s the exhausting task of envisioning a blank canvas from scratch.

This is where paint-by-numbers steps in as a massive relief. By choosing a project with an expected, pre-determined output, I get to skip the decision fatigue entirely. The map is already drawn. All I have to do is show up with a brush.

When picking kits, I love massive scales or smaller, highly detailed grids. The micro-details keep my focus entirely locked in. Of course, because this is my "just how I want" zone, the lines are more like suggestions. Sometimes I finish a piece, and sometimes I don't. Sometimes I follow the numbers exactly, and sometimes I completely ignore them.

The biggest downside to this medium is that acrylic paint waits for no one. These tiny plastic pots eventually dry up. When they do, they are gone for good. I save my loose, spare paints strictly for my freehand pieces, because trying to match unlabelled tubes to a numbered kit gives me a spike of unwanted anxiety.

So, what happens when a project is only halfway done and the paint dries out? I simply leave them exactly as they are, declare them finished, and display them anyway. Right next to my fully completed pieces, you will find a beautifully detailed butterfly sitting on top of an entirely blank background, alongside a block of color that I proudly call my "ugly paint with poor details." It adds a little bit of comedy to my space.

Painting Blank Ceramics: The Art of the Splash and Blot

Moving away from flat canvases onto three-dimensional, blank ceramic figurines brings back a pure sense of childlike freedom.

My approach here is exactly the same: there are no rules. Sometimes I finish them, sometimes I don’t, and sometimes I stop halfway through simply because I decide the figurine actually looks cooler left in its stark, unpainted white state.

From a practical perspective, ceramics offer a unique tactile playground because clay handles moisture entirely differently than paper. A ceramic figurine will never wrinkle, buckle, or tear no matter how much liquid you throw at it. If you use too much water, the excess simply sheets right off the smooth surface.

However, because the paint slides and pools over 3D curves, colors can quickly run together. As a result, the final pieces can sometimes look a little muddy, patchy, or permanently half-done.

There is just something about the shape of these little figures that makes me resist fully painting them from head to toe. But on the days I do sit down and cover them in pigment, I walk away feeling entirely satisfied.

Once again, I proudly put them all out on display as though they look flawless, because the point of my creative table is to give myself permission to blot, color, slide, and splash paint any way I want to.

Freehand Painting: The Freedom and "Pleasing Pressure"

While kits provide a comforting set of boundaries, diving into freehand painting on a completely blank sheet of paper offers a feeling of total, raw freedom.

But with that absolute freedom comes a very specific, paradoxically wonderful sensation: a pleasing sense of "pressure."

When you sit face-to-face with a blank page, deciding exactly how and where to begin is both exciting and terrifying.

Your hands might hesitate for a few seconds over the paper, caught in a wave of hesitation. But there is a profound, physical relief that washes over you the exact moment that very first brushstroke is placed down.

Once the ice is broken, the fear evaporates, and the mind slips into focus. Because I have no formal training, my freehand pieces are entirely dependent on my mood.

I simply paint whatever satisfies my mind in that exact moment—an abstract concept, a scenery in front of me, or a photograph I took on an adventure.

Admittedly, sharing these freehand paintings brings up a genuine wave of embarrassment. It makes me feel incredibly exposed.

With a kit, you can hide behind the framework of the template. But a freehand painting is entirely you; every stroke represents a personal decision and a piece of your inner landscape.

Yet, leaning into that discomfort is precisely why it is such a vital piece of the creative buffet. It teaches you to accept your skills exactly as they are, to trust your hands, and to create something that belongs entirely, beautifully, to you.

Conclusion: Art Therapy is Room to Remember

Ultimately, through all these decades of crafting, I have come to realize what art truly means to me. More than the final piece hanging on a wall or sitting on a shelf, art is the process. In fact, the process is the art.

This is precisely why patterns, kits, and templates work so beautifully. The physical act of working on them means just as much as the grand act of envisioning a masterpiece from scratch. And when I look back at the pieces I have created over the years, they don't just look like thread, clay, or pigments to me. They carry memories.

Looking at my creations allows me to vividly relive the exact moments created while working on them. When I look at a certain piece, I don’t see technical flaws; I remember the exact feeling of painting a pink bear figurine at an art cafe in Vietnam while my husband sat nearby drinking his coffee.

We often think of art therapy as a tool to escape, to quiet our minds, or to forget the exhausting weights of daily life. But for me, art therapy is also a room to remember. It is a deliberate, joyful attempt to freeze moments in time and actively construct the memories and experiences that I prefer to carry with me into the future.

Sometimes the pieces on my table are left half-done. Sometimes, they are straight-up ugly. But that is entirely okay. Every single one of them carries something infinitely heavier and more precious than pigment. They carry my time, my choices, and my life—created just when I want, and exactly how I want

📋 A Quick Note from the Artist

Disclaimer: Just a friendly reminder that while I have decades of personal experience sitting at my creative table, I am not a psychologist, psychiatrist, or art therapy professional. The tips, methods, and "rules" shared in this article—like ditching embroidery hoops, chasing natural light, and proudly displaying half-baked, dried-out paintings—are simply what work for my own brain and my own "head zone." This piece is meant for inspiration and comfort, not as medical or clinical advice. If you are navigating your own mental health journey, please always consult with a qualified professional. In the meantime, feel free to grab some clay or a canvas and make a mess entirely on your own terms!

As a little footnote to my "room to remember" philosophy, I’ve recently taken things a step further. Instead of just buying random kits at the store, I’ve started transforming my own photographs into custom cross-stitch patterns and paint-by-numbers layouts.

When I sit down with these pieces, I am quite literally reliving a specific day, a landscape I fell in love with, or an animal I spotted on an adventure. It adds an extra layer of magic to the entire process. If you want to try transforming your own memories into a creative playground, I've linked a few of my custom-designed patterns below!