Grow your excitement: Creativity, curiosity, and cognitive renewal
When I began losing my ability to speak and write fluently in Dutch, I started using English more and more. At first, it was a workaround—looking up unfamiliar words in English somehow felt easier than stumbling through the word-finding fog in my mother tongue. Eventually, English became not just a tool, but a gateway to rediscovery.
Chronological storytelling was a challenge. My mind often scrambled details, and stringing a clear narrative felt overwhelming. But something unexpected happened—I started writing poems. Poetry and rhyme, something I never excelled at in school, began to flow from me with surprising ease. It was a creative lifeline. A new way to express feelings I couldn’t yet explain in conversation. Writing became a space where I could heal.
One of my early poems, “I Forgot,” struck a chord with other Long Covid survivors. It was raw, relatable, and full of the honest confusion that so many of us feel. I wasn’t writing for perfection. I was writing to remember myself.
After my first infection, I realized something wasn’t right with my brain. My attention span vanished, and even simple tasks became exhausting. I struggled with every sense. Doctors initially assured me that my mental capacity would return with stamina, through physical exercise. But after my second infection floored me completely, I knew: exercise alone wasn’t going to bring me back.
In January 2021, I finally learned I had Long Covid—though even then, many professionals didn’t fully recognize it. I had to become my own researcher, my own guide. True to form, I found my own creative ways to train my brain.
Daily routines were impossible to reestablish, so I stopped chasing balance and started cultivating harmony. Instead of rigid structure, I focused on flow. Reading and learning seemed out of reach, but I kept trying. Despite advice to avoid these frustrations, I followed my intuition and continued learning—but only when my body and mind allowed.
I stopped worrying about whether I retained everything I read. I trusted that the information was stored somewhere, even if I couldn’t access it at will. And often, it came back to me at just the right moment. Journaling helped me notice these patterns. I saw how often I repeated things—not as a failure, but as a form of integration.
Through acceptance, I reclaimed joy. I began to believe in my capacity to grow again—not perfectly, but continuously. I trust that what is meant for me will find its way.
Reflections for you:
- What unexpected tools or languages have helped you express yourself in new ways?
- What creative outlets might be waiting for you to explore?
- Where in your life have you found growth, even through limitation?
- What would happen if you stopped chasing balance and focused on harmony instead?
Sometimes healing looks like poetry. Sometimes it looks like permission. And sometimes, it looks like trusting that even in forgetfulness, you are still learning, still becoming.
