Hi, I’m Yolita.

I became the academic one (studied psychology at university) and took the safe, sensible path after graduation. I ticked every box along the way, hoping someone at the end would crown me officially successful, and finally enough. Instead, every box made me feel a little less alive.

Everywhere I went, people were tired and stressed, having polite conversations that never went deep. I wanted off this strange ride but kept riding anyway, not knowing what would happen if I did. And somewhere between noticing it in everyone else, I slipped onto autopilot too.

The scariest part was waking up feeling empty every day, and wondering if this was just what being an adult felt like. A stable job that doesn’t ask much of your mind, predictable salary, rent, groceries, then scrolling, shopping and another episode of something, ANYTHING, to dull the emptiness. And 20 days of holiday a year to recover from the other 345, lost in a hum so monotonous it’s almost hypnotic. When I finally hit a breaking point and asked for help, I came away with a label, and still no idea where any of it came from. I didn’t want the feeling quieter. I wanted to know why it was there.

So I went looking. Psychology led me into philosophy, metaphysics and spirituality. I thought I was studying the mind. But looking back, I was peeling away everything I’d been told about who I was, including the belief that I wasn’t creative.

The more I understood, the more I wondered how many other people felt the same way. I thought about the years this had taken from me. It shaped what I studied, the life choices I made and the way I saw myself. I kept picturing how differently things might have gone, if I’d explored and followed my creativity instead of suppressing it.

I didn’t want anyone else to squeeze their life into a shape that didn’t fit, then wake up numb and on autopilot the way I had. I wanted to talk about it, out loud, and help.

The moment I pressed record, my throat tightened and I froze, staring at the camera like a deer in headlights, with tears in my eyes. Imposter syndrome hit hard! I had no idea what to say, or how to say it, so I’d be understood.

I was terrified of being seen as the weird, wobbly, existential person I am. Helping people find their way back to their creativity became my purpose, the thing I feel I’m here to do, which makes it even scarier.

What if I fail?

So I kept my dream at arm’s length. I procrastinated, polished things that never went out, and told myself I needed one more course, one more certification, before I’d be ready.

I talked myself out of it again and again, and grew increasingly frustrated with myself for doing it. After all, if something stays a dream, it can’t fail, and stays perfect, right?

On the rare occasions I DID try, I didn’t trust my own instincts. I followed every piece of online advice on “how to make it” (often contradicting), which just ended up in me copying other creators. Because somewhere underneath, I was still afraid to let anyone see the real me in what I made.

I tried being a content creator and used the same trending music and formats. I hated every minute of it, couldn’t stay consistent, and never quite followed through because, in retrospect, none of it was me.

Oh, let’s not forget to mention the pressure to post more, grow faster and make money from it, because that’s how you prove you are successful. I burned out just thinking about the whole process.

Which made me wonder if the old narrative was true after all, that I wasn’t creative.

Just as I was finding my feet, everything sped up. AI can write, edit, come up with ideas and post on schedule, so, the reaction was to hand it all over to keep up with the changing world.

I’m an analogue, deeply human kind of person, and watching creativity turn into a numbers game made being vulnerable online feel even scarier. And I could never be as “perfect” as AI (my mind does me dirty sometimes).

We’re producing more and connecting less. And the more of ourselves we outsource and edit, the harder it gets to truly see each other, who we really are under the masks, and what we actually want to say when we open up, heart to heart.

For the past few years I’ve worked behind the scenes in the creator and AI economy, building communities, systems and operations for creators and solopreneurs. And I kept noticing the same pattern.

One creator had outgrown the topic they’d built an audience around, but the fear of becoming irrelevant, and of losing income, kept them there. They started to resent what they’d made, their consistency slipped, their online community felt it, and people drifted away. Ironically, this was exactly what they were afraid of.

Another was posting constantly, but mostly for the validation, without a bigger reason underneath it. So the content ran on autopilot, with no clear message. The numbers moved, but nobody really connected, and the business they wanted to build never quite took shape.

I’ve even watched my partner, a creator too and, in my completely unbiased opinion, the smartest person in his field, go through the overwhelm, the rebrands and the self-doubt.

It’s the same pressure every time: survival, money and success gradually mattering more than the reason you started, until the magic drains out of what you make.

I watched it happen to communities too. They’re having a moment as a lucrative business model, so the primal instinct is to scale them with speed and automation: auto-messages, scheduled posts, AI replies. But belonging is where we find meaning, purpose and a real connection with each other; and it runs on people actually being present. Automate that, and you’re left with a room full of members, and no soul in it.

And then there was the exception. A doctor who became an artist has a community where people simply paint together. They study botanical art, swap photos of flowers, and cheer each other on their individual artistic journey... People, from all different walks of life, brought together by a love of being creative for its own sake. It was so nourishing to watch, as it showed me what’s possible when people create side by side without performing, and how healing it can be.

That community stayed with me, and it’s the kind of place I want to build.

I’m still a work in progress. But I decided to jump into the cold, scary water of being vulnerable online, and trust myself that I’ll swim.

Over the last seven years, through plenty of tearful (and a few cheerful) ups and downs, I tried just about everything. Most of the help I found went one way or the other. One side treated me like a machine to debug, with better habits and more discipline. The other offered spiritual advice too vague to actually use. Neither stuck, because I could understand something completely in my head but still watch my body run the old program.

So I kept pulling at threads, from schools of thought that don’t usually talk to each other, and from every system, tool and practice I could get my hands on. I tested what actually worked until I could weave it all into something whole: a grounded process that works with both the mind and the body, and helps you peel back the layers of the onion until you’re back in touch with your soul.

Everything I share, I’ve tested on myself first, and I still use every day. It’s helped me filter out what isn’t mine, get clear on how I want to show up, and intentionally design my environment. It’s how I picked up the pen on my own life again, and started creating the person, the work and the life I want, consciously, on purpose.

And at 25, I finally bought myself a set of colouring pencils. Drawing is one of the many things I’m exploring to heal my connection with creativity, and with who I am. I’m letting all of me back in: the curiosity, the depth, the weirdness, and the many interests I spent years trying to squeeze into one neat niche. I’m learning to be a channel for what wants to be made, instead of a performer.

And now I know I’m not the only one. I’ve talked with friends, familiar strangers, creators with hundreds of thousands of followers and people running successful businesses. Most of them feel it too, in one shape or another: the same fears and the same limiting beliefs, holding them back from their true potential. So if this is you, you’re not alone.

I believe this is something we’re feeling collectively, right now: a longing to find our way back to creating, and let it nourish us again. And I’d love to help you reconnect with your weird spark, let it be seen, without apologising for it. Because you deserve that, and the world needs it too!

Weird Being Human is what I’m building along the way. A safe place, I hope, to become a conscious creator, to create with your soul, and to do it alongside other humans who get it. One day I’d love it to be a real place too, a loft full of plants, books, clay, art and coffee.

For now, it starts here...

Maybe we’ll draw together. x