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Last week, I felt stuck.

I had a newsletter to write. Paintings to finish. Zoom meetings to attend. But instead of feeling inspired, I felt… off.

Heavy, unmotivated. Not sad exactly, just… distant from myself.

I sat at my desk, opened a blank document, and stared. Nothing came.

So I did what I always do when I notice I’m out of alignment and heading into a spiral I don’t want to stay in:

I walked up to my studio. I opened the doors. And I started to paint.

There was a big canvas leaning against the wall — a swirl of muddy layers I hadn’t touched since before my trip to France. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I covered it up. I squeezed out colors I don’t normally use. I grabbed a brush I rarely reach for.

And then… I turned on the playlist.

The playlist.

It’s the one I’ve been playing since my recent retreat in France — a mix of unexpected songs that became the soundtrack of our week together. And the very first song on it?

“Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves.

I didn’t even know who that was, honestly. But I’ll never forget how everything changed when it started playing on day one of the retreat.

The energy had been low that first morning. Everyone was tired from traveling, a little uncertain. I tried an exercise where we painted on each other’s backgrounds, thinking it would spark some playfulness. But it flopped.

People felt stuck. One person even said they liked their painting less after that exercise. The room got quiet.

Then someone said,

“We need different music.”

Another suggested Walking on Sunshine.

We hit play — and everything changed.

Smiles. Singing. Dancing. Shared brushes. Shared joy.

We became a group in that moment. A little art family. Every day after, we played that playlist. And every day, we came back to ourselves through rhythm, color, and laughter.

So last week, in my quiet studio, that’s what I returned to.

Even though I was painting over something I didn’t love, even though the colors felt strange and uncertain, I danced. I painted. I imagined all of us together again — laughing, painting, singing off-key.

And just like that… the joy came back.

Not because I forced it, but because I remembered how to find it.