The Night I Cried Over a Coloring Book — And Why It Changed Everything
I thought I'd lost my creativity forever. Then a $9.99 book, a set of colored pencils, and one quiet evening reminded me who I used to be.
I don't remember the exact date. I remember it was a Tuesday, because Tuesdays were the worst. The kind of day where you wake up already tired, slog through emails that don't matter, eat lunch at your desk without tasting it, and come home to an apartment that feels too quiet and too full at the same time.
I was 34, and I hadn't drawn anything in fifteen years.
Not since college, when I used to fill the margins of my notebooks with little characters — a rabbit with a coffee cup, a cat wearing glasses, a blobby thing that was somehow always smiling. Back then, drawing wasn't a thing I did. It was just... how I thought. My pen moved while my mind wandered, and the page filled up with these small, happy creatures that didn't ask anything of me. They didn't need to be good. They just needed to exist.
Then life happened. The job that ate my evenings. The relationship that drained my joy. The slow, invisible erosion of the person who used to make things just because making things felt good. I told myself I'd get back to it. "When work calms down." "When I have more energy." "When I feel inspired again."
Spoiler: work never calmed down. The energy never came back. And inspiration? Inspiration doesn't visit people who've forgotten how to open the door.
The Night Everything Broke
I was sitting on my couch at 11 PM, phone in hand, scrolling through nothing. My shoulders hurt. My jaw ached from clenching. I'd been doing this for three hours — mindlessly consuming content that left me emptier than I started.
And then, I don't know why, I opened my Amazon app. Not to buy anything. Just... distraction. I typed "coloring books for adults" into the search bar. I don't know what I was looking for. Proof that other people were still creative, maybe. A reminder that calm existed somewhere in the world.
November 14, 2023 — the night before everything changed
I ordered three books on impulse. I don't remember what the other two were. I remember the one that arrived first: a simple paperback with a yellow cover and little blob characters on the front. The Blob Drawing Book. The title made me laugh — a sad, tired laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. Something about those round, squishy shapes felt friendly. Non-judgmental. Like they were saying, "Hey, you don't have to be good at this. You just have to show up."
I left it on my coffee table for three days.
I was scared to open it. Isn't that ridiculous? I was terrified of a coloring book. Because what if I tried and it was terrible? What if I discovered I'd truly lost whatever small spark I used to have? It was easier not to know. Safer to let the book sit there, unopened, preserving the possibility that maybe — maybe — I could still do this.
The Evening I Finally Picked Up a Pencil
It was a Friday. Rain against the window. The kind of night that makes staying in feel like a choice instead of a default. I made tea I didn't drink. I sat on the couch. I stared at the yellow book for ten minutes.
Then I opened it.
The first page said: "Start with a blob. Any blob. There's no wrong way to draw a blob."
I stared at that sentence for a long time. There's no wrong way. When was the last time someone told me that? When was the last time I gave myself permission to be bad at something and do it anyway?
I drew a blob. It was lopsided and too wide and slightly triangular in a way that blobs shouldn't be. It was perfect.
The book showed me where to add two small circles for eyes. A curved line for a smile. Little stick legs that somehow made it look like it was dancing. And then — I don't know how it happened — I was adding a tiny bow tie. Then freckles. Then I was laughing, alone in my apartment, because my blob looked like a nervous accountant going to a party he wasn't sure about.
I named him Gerald.
I sat there looking at Gerald — this ridiculous, lopsided, bow-tied blob — and I started to cry. Not because I was sad. Because for the first time in years, I felt like myself. The version of me who made things without worrying if they were good. The version who existed outside of productivity and performance and all the ways adulthood teaches you to measure your worth.
I cried for ten minutes. Ugly crying, the kind where you can't really explain why you're crying even if someone asks. I cried because I'd forgotten I could feel this way. Because somewhere along the line, I'd convinced myself that creativity was a luxury I couldn't afford, a frivolous thing that responsible adults left behind.
I cried because Gerald — this silly little blob with his anxious smile — reminded me that I was still in there. That the person who used to draw happy creatures in notebook margins hadn't disappeared. She'd just gone quiet, waiting for me to remember how to listen.
What Happened Next
I drew every night for a month. Not because I forced myself. Because I couldn't stop. Because twenty minutes with a pencil and a blob felt like coming up for air after being underwater for years.
I drew Gerald's family. His sister who was a perfect circle and way too confident. His cousin who looked like a potato and didn't care. I drew flowers that were just blobs with petals. I drew a house that was a blob with windows. I drew a whole world of blobby things, each one more ridiculous and more precious than the last.
Here's what I didn't expect: the drawing didn't stay on the page. Something about those twenty minutes of making things spilled over into the rest of my life. I started cooking again — real cooking, not just heating things up. I called my sister after months of text-only communication. I went for walks without podcasts, just to look at trees and remember what quiet felt like.
I wasn't "fixed." I wasn't suddenly happy all the time. But I was present again. I was living inside my life instead of watching it from a distance.
And slowly, quietly, I started wanting to share this. Because I couldn't be the only one who'd forgotten. The only one who thought creativity was for "real artists" while the rest of us just... consumed. The only one who needed someone to say: There's no wrong way to draw a blob. There's no wrong way to start.
Why I Created These Books
I need to be honest with you. Everything I just told you led to something I never planned.
I started making books. Not because I had a business plan. Not because I thought I could compete with "real" publishers. Because I kept thinking about the person I was that rainy Friday — scared, exhausted, convinced she'd lost something essential — and the person I became when I finally picked up a pencil.
I wanted to create the book I needed that night. The one that wouldn't judge me. The one that would hold my hand through the first scary steps and then let go when I was ready to run. The one that understood that "beginner" doesn't mean "less than" — it means "beginning," and beginnings are brave.
The Blob Drawing Book
The book that started it all. The one I wish had existed on my coffee table that November. Step-by-step tutorials that take you from "I can't draw" to "I just drew that" in twenty minutes. For everyone who forgot they were creative. For everyone who needs to remember.
Then I made more. A coloring book of baby animals because there's something about cute creatures that bypasses all our defenses and goes straight to the heart. A book of cozy places because we all need somewhere soft to land. Books about kitchen chaos and cooking adventures because life is messy and beautiful and worth celebrating.
Each one is a love letter to the person I was. Each one is an invitation to the person you might be, if you let yourself start.
A Letter to the Person Who Needs to Hear This
You're still in there.
The part of you that used to make things. That used to daydream. That used to find joy in creating something that didn't exist before you touched it. It's not gone. It's just quiet. It's been waiting — patiently, faithfully — for you to remember.
You don't need talent. You don't need expensive supplies. You don't need to "feel inspired." You need a pencil, a piece of paper, and permission to be bad at something for a little while.
Draw a blob. Any blob. Make it lopsided and weird and completely yours. Add eyes that are too big. A smile that's crooked. Give it a name that makes you laugh.
And then sit with it. Look at what you made. Not with criticism — with wonder. Because you created something. In a world that tries to convince you that your only value is what you consume, you made something exist that didn't exist before.
That's not small. That's not frivolous. That's the most human thing we do.
Start tonight. Start scared. Start imperfect. Just start.
Where I Am Now
It's been two and a half years since that rainy Friday. I still draw every day. Not because I have to — because I can't imagine not. Gerald lives on my desk, framed, crooked bow tie and all. He reminds me that the scariest moment is the moment before you start, and that everything beautiful lives on the other side of that fear.
I still have bad days. Days where the words don't come and the drawings feel flat and I wonder if any of this matters. But now I have a practice. Now I know that showing up — even when it feels pointless — is how you find your way back. The blob doesn't care if you're having a bad day. The blob just wants you to begin.
I get messages sometimes from people who found my books. A mom who colors with her daughter after school and says it's the only time they truly connect. A nurse who keeps a coloring book in her locker for breaks between shifts. A grandfather who learned to draw at 72 and sends me pictures of his blob characters with pride that radiates through the screen.
Each message makes me cry a little. The good kind of crying. The kind that reminds me why I do this.
If You're Ready to Start
I can't promise you'll cry. I can't promise you'll have some profound revelation. But I can promise you this: twenty minutes with a blob and a pencil is twenty minutes you spent creating instead of consuming. And that, I've learned, is where the healing lives.
Find Your First Book →This post contains affiliate links to books I created. If you purchase through these links, I earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. Every book was born from the story you just read. Published June 12, 2026.
© 2026 Koco Kyo. All rights reserved.