The Body Gets Tired Before the Mind

There’s a lie we tell ourselves in creative life:
that if the mind is still alive, the body should keep going.

It shouldn’t.

Writing is often described as a mental act – imagination, ideas, language, thought.
But creativity does not live only in the head.
It lives in the nervous system.
In breath.
In sleep.
In limits.

And the body always knows before the mind admits it.

I’ve learned this the slow way.

There was a time when I believed creativity was endless – that if I pushed hard enough, stayed long enough, worked obsessively enough, something brilliant would eventually come out.
That exhaustion was proof of commitment.
That discipline meant endurance at any cost.

Now I know better.

Creativity is not a bottomless bag.
It’s a living system.
And systems collapse when they are abused.

When productivity becomes dangerous

For me, productivity is not a neutral word.
Because of bipolarity, too much focus, too many hours, too much intensity can quietly slide into hypomania – that seductive state where everything feels sharp, fast, powerful… and unsustainable.

From the outside, it looks like brilliance.
From the inside, it’s imbalance.

Writing for hours on end is not heroic in my case.
It’s a risk.

So I write less.

Not because I have less to say.
But because I’ve learned that quality lives inside limits.

Discipline as an act of care

There’s a version of discipline that punishes.
And another that protects.

The discipline I practice now is closer to affection than control.

I write during the day.
I stop before exhaustion.
I divide my time – books, posts, social media, life.
I step away even when ideas are still coming.

Especially when ideas are still coming.

Because stopping is how I stay well.
And staying well is how I keep writing.

Creativity doesn’t grow in the abyss.
It grows in rhythm.

The danger of romanticizing exhaustion

We love stories of artists who burned themselves into greatness.
Who worked through the night.
Who ignored their bodies.
Who paid with collapse.

But exhaustion doesn’t make work deeper.
It makes it distorted.

Fatigue narrows perception.
It tricks us into confusing intensity with truth.
Quantity with value.
Urgency with meaning.

Writing less does not mean writing worse.
Often, it means writing more clearly.

What maturity taught me

I used to think discipline meant pushing through.
Now I know it means listening.

Listening to the body when it says: enough.
Listening to the mind when it starts repeating itself.
Listening to the silence that asks for rest before it asks for words.

Creativity doesn’t disappear when you stop.
It waits.

And when you return – rested, grounded, alive –
it’s still there.

Not louder.
But truer.

The body gets tired before the mind.
Ignoring that is not devotion to art.

It’s neglect.

And I no longer confuse neglect with passion.