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Letting Go to Let Flow: Creating Without Purpose

Writer's picture: Laura HemmerlingLaura Hemmerling

Have you ever stopped to wonder what it might feel like to create without a purpose? To paint without worrying if the colors blend perfectly? To write without considering if anyone will read your words? To simply let your hands, your mind, your heart, move—with no expectation of what the end result will be?


This realization struck me recently: I have never truly created without an expected outcome. My creativity has always been tied to a purpose, a reason, a result. In school, projects were graded. There was a right way and a wrong way to create. I learned early that creation was something to be evaluated, compared, measured. Later in life, the stakes became higher. Creativity transformed into productivity. Could this thing I made earn money? Could it be deemed valuable by someone else? Could it prove my worth?


This conditioning runs deep. For as long as I can remember, creating has been tied to an external outcome—a grade, approval, validation, or income. But what if it didn’t have to be? What if creating could be an act of joy, of freedom, of exploration? What would emerge if I gave myself permission to create just for fun?


I find myself curious about what might want to come through me if I truly let go. If I allowed myself to notice when I’m attached to an outcome—when that familiar desire for validation rises up—and simply let it be. No judgment, no resistance, just awareness. Could I create from a place of curiosity instead of striving? Could I reconnect with the playful, unselfconscious energy of childhood—before creativity became something to be graded or sold?


It’s a tender thought, this idea of releasing the need for an outcome. It’s also a radical one. To create for the fun of it is to reclaim something that feels ancient and pure. It’s to say, “What flows through me is enough, simply because it exists.” It’s to trust the process, not the product. To embrace the messy, the imperfect, the unfinished—and to find joy in the making.


What might this look like in practice? Perhaps it’s doodling on a piece of scrap paper with no intention of saving it. Maybe it’s singing loudly, off-key, and not caring who hears. It could be writing words that no one else will ever read, or baking a cake just to smell the sweetness filling your kitchen. It might even be letting yourself dream without turning that dream into a plan.


Interestingly, some of the greatest connections and actual outcomes in my life have come when I wasn’t anticipating anything. They emerged when I was simply present with the act of creating. I think of the mornings I’ve spent writing in my journal during my morning pages practice, letting thoughts flow freely without judgment. Or the times I’ve created a meditation for the sheer joy of seeing where it might lead. In those moments, without striving for a specific result, something profound often surfaced—a realization, a sense of peace, or even an unexpected connection with someone who resonated with what I had shared.


I’m beginning to wonder if this kind of creativity—wild, unstructured, free—is closer to the truth of who we are. Before we learned to measure and compare, we simply made things. Sandcastles that washed away with the tide. Finger paintings that ended up in the recycling bin. Stories we told ourselves at bedtime. These creations weren’t for anyone else. They weren’t even for our future selves. They were simply a way of being alive in the moment.


So here’s my invitation to you, and to myself: What would it feel like to create just for the fun of it? To let go of any outcome, or to notice the attachment to an outcome and let it be okay? What might want to come through you if you trusted the process and allowed yourself to play?


Perhaps we’ll find that the act of creating—messy, imperfect, joyful—is the outcome. And maybe that’s enough.




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