Our Origin Story
Creativity too often comes last
It is quiet and gradual, so gradual you almost don’t notice it until you look up one day and realize the part of you that liked to make things, that liked color and texture and the satisfaction of creating something just because, has gone almost completely silent.
It happens in the accumulation of ordinary days. The responsibilities that multiply. The roles that expand. The creative self that gets set aside, just for now, until just for now becomes years. And don’t get us started on the harshness of corporate life.
For a lot of women, especially women in midlife, there comes a reckoning. A recognition that what they were promised in terms of happiness and fulfillment is not materializing the way they expected. That something essential is missing. And that they have possibly been too busy to stop and name it.
The way back can begin small
She lived it through years in the tech industry, doing the work of several people, delivering, showing up, going quiet inside while everything looked fine from the outside.
The way back began small. A pack of unicorn stickers at a grocery store card aisle. Then papers. Then pens. Then an old work notebook, barely used, that she picked up one evening and opened to a blank page.
She did not fill it with tasks or agendas or someone else’s priorities. She made something just for herself. A piece of pretty paper she had been saving. A sticker. A napkin from a good day out, kept because something in her knew it mattered even before she could say why.
She made a spread. Just because. Just for her.
Something came back to life. The practice grew. The notebooks multiplied. And a question started forming that she couldn’t set aside: if creative journaling did this for her, what could it do for other women?
Creative journaling is necessary
When Lola started sharing her own creative journaling, the response stopped her. Women leaned in. They recognized something. They said, without her having to explain it, that they knew exactly what she meant. That they used to make things and somehow stopped. That they had been looking for a way back in and didn’t know where the door was.
She saw it in the women around her. Talented, capable, creative women who had set that part of themselves aside so long ago they had started to believe it was simply gone. She encountered women who had already found their way to creative journaling and were discovering what she had discovered: that it was doing something for them that nothing else quite could.
The evidence kept accumulating. This was not a personal quirk or a private recovery. This was something a lot of women needed. And nobody had built a proper home for it.
There were craft stores. There were art supply shops. There were snail mail clubs. There were tutorials on the internet and journals you could buy at any bookstore.
But there were no shared spaces. No curated source of supplies chosen specifically for creative journaling, made by women artists, delivered with intention. Scant opportunities for women to connect with others who were on similar journeys.
No one was saying to the woman who had never tried it: you belong here, you can do this, here is everything you need to begin.
The women who make stuff, so you can make stuff.
