It occurred to me the other day that if I had to boil my life to date down to one word it would be survival.

Someone once gave me a dishtowel that says But Did You Die? Even my kitchen feels the stress of living in the crevice between I was born this person and then I was told I was this other person. When you live in a crevice, you think a lot about whether you are going to die soon. You worry you aren’t where you are supposed to be. You worry you are supposed to be doing something to get out of the crevice, the pit, whatever you want to call this place that keeps you from deeply (or superficially even, perhaps) connecting with other people.

When a body is born and is separated from their mother, the body learns the world is not safe. The world is about stress hormones. The world is about discomfort. When a body is born and separated from their mother, the body learns the world is a place to survive. It is not a warm breast giving love and succor. It is something else.

I heard Martha Beck say you can’t feel anxious and creative at the same time. I think I heard her say this. Regardless, the idea makes sense to me. If a little kid is engrossed in drawing a stick figure and the sun and a tree, the kid is thinking about line and color, not whether his house is on fire. (Now that I write this, I’m not sure it’s true, but, oh well, let’s take it for a spin and see what happens.)

What I have noticed in the year-long writing groups I do with people who are adopted is that there is so much creativity in these bodies that have withstood trauma and fear and loss. I mean, when these people let go of tight minds and rigid addictions to habitual, negative thoughts, what pours forth is well, glory. Surprise. Beauty. Heartbreak. Love. Then I see them start to bond with others in the class in new ways. Creativity invites friendliness which invites intimacy and kindness and attachment.

I believe in creativity. My subconscious mind could happily run me into the grave pushing me to circle round and round negative thoughts and beliefs that I am in trouble and that all my resources, mental and physical, need to be dedicated to my survival. There is not a lot of creativity in circular thinking, in habitual worries. There are stomachaches and headaches and lupus. There are shingles and cancer and insomnia.

Creativity can be like crack or mother’s milk to the adoptee soul. It can make us wild. It can feed us. It can feel like a drug. It can feel like home. Creativity can be the key to the jail cell. It can be the secret sauce for an unforgettable burger. Creativity can be the way out of Dodge.

You don’t have to be a great writer or painter or potter or a great or even sub-par at anything to be creative. It’s not about how creative you are—it’s not about judgement. It’s about being, doing. It’s about showing up and trying. You are constantly creating in your life, even when you take a shit. It’s the realizing how powerful you are that’s the difference. It’s the knowing that only you, you snowflake, can back the car out of the driveway the way you do.

Creativity is the voice come alive. It is truth. It is courage. It is real. It is the light at the end of the tunnel. If you choose a life of creativity over a life of survival, your every move can be an act of creation. You create your life when you walk your dog with intention, with awareness. You come alive when you make your peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the way only you can make it. Making a sandwich with the dull grip of I gotta eat this fucking sandwich so I can get through the day is a different experience than I wonder how I will spread the jelly today. Look at me create with two pieces of bread and some spreadables!

Many adopted people live their lives in a form of dissociation, there and not there. Creativity asks for all of you to come to the table so you can take what is inside of you and make it on the outside. Creativity is an act of boldness and an assertion that you are real. That you matter. That you were created, and so now you create.

I hope this made some sense. I felt ranty writing it, but what the hell. It was fun.