Creative Hibernation
There’s a specific silence that follows the final exhale of a big project. It’s not the satisfying quiet of a job done, nor the simple peace of an ending.
At the beginning of 2024, I signed on to two projects that both wrapped at the end of the year. One was providing creative direction for two Michelin-starred chefs opening restaurants. The other was training for and running my first marathon in my hometown of NYC, and doing so with a brand sponsorship - a unity of personal and professional aspirations.
By some stroke of both optimism and madness, the two finish lines were scheduled within ten days of each other. Openings, race day. My wife was vocal about the risks, my clients asked if I could manage, and my legs trembled at the thought—but I wanted both. Call it ambitious, call it foolish, call it magical. I had no illusions about the challenge; I simply knew I would give everything to make both successful.
From January to fall, I became a different version of myself. Not better, not perfect, just adapted. Days were a cascade of family, client deadlines, and running. Fulfillment and stress fought for prime position. My saving grace was teamwork: two graphic designers who helped craft the restaurants’ identities and my running project manager who kept me on track. But my wife—she was the team within the team, the one who held everything together as I veered between exhaustion and exhilaration.
When fall arrived, everything fell into place, at least externally. The restaurants opened beautifully; I crossed the finish line. But I had burned through more fuel than I had to offer. The chemistry of completion hit me unexpectedly: my body, so used to constant movement, rebelled against the stillness, leaving me physically and emotionally unwell.
Treasures, their underbelly
The treasures of a big project are undeniable. There’s the memory of flow—those magical days when every decision felt inevitable, every moment filled with purpose. There’s the way you stretch yourself, discovering new ideas, new corners of your voice. And there’s the thrill of seeing it all come together—each piece clicking into place until the shape emerges, undeniable. When you’re lucky enough to share the effort with a team, the energy multiplies. One person’s breakthrough sparks another’s, and the work becomes greater than the sum of its parts. These shared moments linger as a kind of collective treasure, a memory of something created together that could not have existed otherwise.
But the blues sneak in quietly. As you over-invest, the idea of preparing for what’s next becomes a blur. The blues linger in the void where the project once lived, a space that used to hum with possibility but now feels unnervingly still. The restlessness, the hollowness, the sense of being untethered—it’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t felt it. The work gave you a direction, a reason to wrestle with the day. Without it, you’re adrift.
And yet—what a gift it is to be adrift. To hibernate and regenerate.
Generosity of spirit
I’ve come to terms with my own emptying. Found ways to cope, paths, both physical and figurative, for filling up again. My turning point lay not in trying to find something new immediately, nor pushing toward any sort of similar excellence whatsoever. It came with time and the slow realization that hollowing out is not a loss; it’s an offering. You’ve poured yourself into something, and in doing so, you’ve made space. What feels empty now is not a void but an opening—an eventual readiness for what’s next. And yet, this moment doesn’t only belong to you. Those around you—the partner who supported you, the friends who cheered you on, the family who asked for updates—feel the echoes of your completion too, but often in a different phase. While you sit in stillness, they may not understand the weight of the funk you feel.
Explaining it is double-edged. On one hand, it’s an effort when effort feels scarce. On the other, it can be transformative. Naming your feelings—the gratitude, the exhaustion, the blues—gives you ownership of them. It invites others to honor your experience and creates a shared closure, a way to release what’s been held so tightly. The generosity of spirit you applied to the project can now carry you forward, even if the path ahead remains unclear.
The letting go
Letting go of a project is an act of bone-deep bravery. It requires faith—in yourself, in the work, in the strange alchemy of creation. You have to trust that what you made is enough, even as you feel the temptation to keep tinkering, to hold on.
You also have to let go of what the work asked of you. Big projects demand everything: discipline, courage, and a willingness to sit with doubt. When they’re over, you must release not just the work but the version of yourself who made it. You are no longer that person, just as the work is no longer yours.
A marathon is a meteoric manifestation of those values. The hours poured into training, the self-imposed discipline, the pressure of the race itself - all of which dissipates in the span of a few hours. Modeling parts of a life around ephemeral, intense practice is inherently emptying. There is a clear boundary of before and after that demands the self-awareness to lean in only to step away. It’s these self-prescribed bouts at the peak that invite reset and renewal.
Now what?
To feel hollowed out is to know you gave everything you could. There’s beauty in that—in the willingness to show up fully, to risk emptiness for the sake of making something real. This is the creative’s bargain: to give, and to let go. To embrace the blues as proof of a life spent imagining, discovering, offering.
The work is done. You are not. These blues will eventually become the layered golds and reds of a new rise in passion. Soon enough, you will feel the spark again—the itch of a new idea, the tug of a new adventure. For now, rest in the beauty of the space you’ve made. Something will fill it when the time is right.
Until then, honor the treasures. Sit with the silence. Trust these days and their awkwardness, their waiting, their betweenness. It is not the end; it is the beginning of what comes next.
As always, a haiku
In the end season, We chant. Conjure new day. Hope. Sun. Beaming. Ray. The mercury dips. Low times require being heard. The warmth of a word. Be sure. All will pass. All things do, as all things must. In due time. We trust.
The Results
I’m very proud of the work completed that led to this set of reflections. Please have a look at the links to my 2024 NYC marathon project here:
And take a gander at the creative direction (naming, project management, editorial) I provided for two excellent new restaurants in Lyon, France:
Ombellule & Brasserie Roseaux.
These last months have certainly added to your creative, physical and emotional adventure. Your curiosity will keep that journey filled with surprises. What will challenge you in 2025 ?
Bravo!