I Forgot How to Color
How a coloring book brought me back to life — and the person I used to be
I used to draw every single day. Not well, necessarily. But with my whole heart. I filled notebooks with lopsided cats and lopsided trees and lopsided people who looked like they were melting, and I loved every imperfect line. I was nine, then twelve, then sixteen. The pages got neater, the lines more controlled, but the joy stayed the same. Drawing was how I thought. How I felt. How I existed.
Then I turned twenty-four and got a job that paid the rent. Then twenty-seven and got promoted. Then thirty and got married and bought a house and had a baby and suddenly there was no room for lopsided anything. There was only the right way to do things. The efficient way. The grown-up way.
I didn't notice it happening. That's the cruelty of creative burnout — it doesn't announce itself. It tiptoes. One day you realize you haven't picked up a pencil in six months. Then a year. Then you can't remember the last time you made something just because you wanted to.
And you tell yourself it's fine. You're an adult now. Adults don't have time for coloring.
I was sitting on the floor of my daughter's room, folding tiny clothes while she slept. I looked at my hands and realized I couldn't remember the last time they'd held anything except a phone, a diaper, a grocery list. I sat there for ten minutes just staring at my palms. They looked like someone else's hands.
The breaking point didn't come with drama. It came with a Tuesday.
I was at my desk, answering emails at 9 PM because the inbox never empties, and my daughter — she was four then — walked in holding a crayon and a piece of paper. She didn't say anything. She just climbed onto my lap and started drawing. A circle. Two dots. Four stick legs. "It's a puppy," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I watched her. The way her whole body leaned into the motion. The way she bit her lip in concentration. The way she didn't care that the legs were different lengths or that one ear was bigger than the other. She was just... making. Without fear. Without judgment. Without any voice in her head saying that's not good enough.
And I felt something I hadn't felt in years. Not inspiration exactly. More like grief. A sharp, sudden mourning for the person who used to sit cross-legged on her bedroom floor and draw for hours, not because it was productive, but because it felt like breathing.
That person was gone. I had killed her slowly, with to-do lists and deadlines and the constant, crushing belief that if I wasn't being useful, I wasn't being anything at all.
The Night I Cried Over a Blob
It was a Thursday in late April. Rain against the window. My daughter asleep. The house quiet in that heavy, lonely way houses get when everyone else is resting and you're still awake, still carrying the day.
I walked into the kitchen for water and saw her crayons on the table. The big box. Sixty-four colors. She'd left the lid off, and they were scattered like fallen leaves — red, turquoise, goldenrod, magenta. I don't know why I picked one up. I don't know why I sat down. But I did.
I drew a blob. Just a wobbly, uneven, completely unremarkable blob in the middle of a blank page. And I stared at it.
Then I added two dots. A curved line underneath. Little triangles on top. It was a cat. A terrible, lopsided, beautiful cat. And I started crying. Not pretty crying. Ugly, shoulder-shaking, can't-breathe crying. Because I remembered. I remembered what it felt like to make something and not care if it was good. I remembered what it felt like to just... be.
That blob cat is still on my fridge. The paper is warped from my tears. I will never throw it away.
I didn't tell anyone about that night. Not my husband, not my friends. It felt too raw, too embarrassing. A grown woman sobbing over a crayon drawing of a cat. But something shifted after that. Something small and stubborn started growing back.
The next night, I drew another blob. And another. I started buying coloring books — not the fancy adult ones with mandalas that feel like homework, but the ones made for actual humans. The ones with puppies and cozy kitchens and baby animals wrapped in blankets. The ones that feel like a hug.
What Science Says (And Why It Matters)
The Research
A 2022 study published in the Journal of the American Art Therapy Association found that just 20 minutes of coloring significantly reduced anxiety levels in adults. The researchers measured cortisol — the stress hormone — before and after, and every single participant showed a decrease. Not some. Every single one.
Coloring activates your brain in a way that's almost meditative. The repetitive motion, the focus on staying inside the lines (or not), the simple sensory pleasure of wax on paper — it quiets the amygdala, the part of your brain that won't stop screaming about deadlines and bills and everything you haven't done yet.
But here's what the studies don't capture: the emotional part. The part where you remember who you were before the world told you to be someone else. The part where a purple elephant and a turquoise sun feel like rebellion. The part where, for ten minutes, you are not a mother or an employee or a wife or any of the roles that have slowly calcified around your real self. You are just a person with a crayon. And that is enough.
My daughter found me coloring at the kitchen table. She didn't say anything. She just climbed onto the chair next to me, picked up a crayon, and started filling in a cloud. We sat there for twelve minutes in complete silence, both of us coloring, both of us breathing. It was the most connected I'd felt to her in months. Not because we were talking. Because we were both doing the same thing — making something, just because we wanted to.
Before and After: What Changed
I measured my worth by my productivity. I felt guilty doing anything that didn't have a clear outcome. My hands were always busy with tasks, never with creating. I couldn't remember the last time I felt genuinely joyful. I told myself I had outgrown art. I believed it.
I color for fifteen minutes every morning before anyone else wakes up. It's not about the picture. It's about the ritual. My hands remember how to make things now. I feel lighter. I laugh more. I notice colors again — the way light hits a wall, the gradient of a sunset. I am not "fixed." I am just... more myself.
Why the Blob Method Worked When Nothing Else Did
I tried journaling. I tried meditation apps. I tried yoga and running and therapy and all of it helped, in its way. But none of it gave me back the thing I had actually lost: the ability to create without pressure.
That's what the blob method does. It removes the blank page terror. You don't start with nothing. You start with a shape — any shape — and you let it become something. There's no wrong answer. A blob with legs is a cat. A blob with wings is a bird. A blob with spikes and three eyes is a monster, and that's perfect too.
It taught me that creativity isn't about talent. It's about permission. And I had spent fifteen years not giving myself permission.
The Blob Drawing Book
Turn any blob into animals, characters & scenes. The book that started my recovery.
View on Amazon
My First Cute and Cozy Baby Animals
Warm, comforting pages of adorable animals. My evening wind-down ritual.
View on AmazonA Letter to You, the One Who Forgot Too
I don't know your story. Maybe you're a parent who hasn't slept through the night in years. Maybe you're working a job that drains everything out of you. Maybe you're caring for someone sick, or grieving someone gone, or just surviving a life that doesn't feel like yours anymore.
But I know this: there is a version of you that used to make things. That used to draw, or paint, or build, or write, or sing — something. That version of you is still in there. Not gone. Just buried under responsibilities and exhaustion and the lie that creativity is a luxury you can't afford.
You don't need an art degree. You don't need expensive supplies. You don't need a studio or free time or any of the things you think you need. You need a crayon. A piece of paper. Ten minutes. And the radical, terrifying, life-changing decision to do something that doesn't serve any purpose except joy.
It won't fix everything. It won't pay your bills or heal your grief or make your job less stressful. But it will remind you that you are more than your productivity. That you are allowed to exist for your own pleasure. That making something — even something small, even something "bad" — is a way of saying I am still here. I still matter. I am still me.
Pick up a crayon. Draw a blob. See what it wants to become.
I'll be right here, coloring too.
— Koco
If this story resonated with you, I'd love to hear yours. What did you used to create? What's one small thing you could do today to find that part of yourself again?
Drop a comment, send me a message, or just sit with the question. No pressure. Just presence.
Share Your StoryFrequently Asked Questions
Can coloring books really help with anxiety and burnout?
Yes. Multiple studies show that coloring activates the amygdala — the brain's fear center — in a calming way, reducing anxiety symptoms. The repetitive motion and focus required act like a form of active meditation.
What if I haven't drawn or colored since I was a child?
That's exactly when you need it most. You don't need skill. You need permission. A coloring book gives you structure so you don't face a blank page, and freedom so you don't have to be perfect.
How long should I color to feel a difference?
Even 10-15 minutes can shift your nervous system. The key is consistency — not duration. Five minutes a day for a week beats one hour once a month.
What's the difference between coloring for kids and coloring for adults?
Adult coloring books typically feature more intricate patterns and themes that resonate with grown-up life — cozy scenes, travel memories, mindful patterns. They're designed to slow you down, not just entertain.
This post contains affiliate links. If you purchase through these links, I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. Thank you for supporting Koco Kyo and the work of helping people rediscover their creativity.