My therapist told me to "create more, consume less". Here are 9 things I tried that made me realize I don't need to buy happiness

About a year ago, I sat in my therapist's office complaining about feeling stuck. Not depressed exactly, just... flat. Like I was running on autopilot, moving from one purchase to the next weekend to the next streaming binge.

She listened to my rambling about buying yet another planner I'd never use and said something that stopped me cold: "What if instead of consuming more, you tried creating more?"

I stared at her like she'd suggested I learn ancient Sanskrit. Create? Me? I hadn't made anything since high school art class, unless you count elaborate spreadsheets for tracking my grocery budget (which, honestly, I was pretty proud of).

But her question stuck with me like a song you can't shake.

So I decided to experiment. Nothing fancy, no grand artistic declarations. Just small acts of making, shaping, or tending — the kind of things that reminded me I could bring something into the world instead of only taking it in.

Here are nine things I tried that made me realize happiness doesn’t come from what you buy — it comes from what you build.

1. Morning pages (aka therapeutic brain dumping)

I started with Julia Cameron's Morning Pages—three pages of stream-of-consciousness writing every morning. No editing, no judgment, just whatever tumbled out of my brain onto paper.

The first week felt like mental constipation. I wrote about my weird dreams, my annoyance with my neighbor’s leaf blower, random grocery lists, even whether or not I should cut bangs again (spoiler: I shouldn’t). None of it felt profound, but it did feel honest.

By week two, something shifted. Problems I’d been quietly avoiding started surfacing in the margins—work stress, tricky friendships, nagging self-doubt. And right alongside them? Solutions I hadn’t considered.

Writing without a filter was like having a conversation with a wiser version of myself who already knew the answers, if only I’d slow down enough to listen.

It made me realize that sometimes clarity doesn’t come from consuming advice or searching for external validation—it comes from emptying your own head first.

It reminded me of a passage from Rudá Iandê’s new book Laughing in the Face of Chaos: A Politically Incorrect Shamanic Guide for Modern Life, where he writes:

“We live immersed in an ocean of stories, from the collective narratives that shape our societies to the personal tales that define our sense of self.”

His insight resonated because morning pages helped me see which stories were actually mine and which ones I’d inherited without question. That daily ritual didn’t just clear my head—it helped me notice which narratives I wanted to keep, and which I was finally ready to let go.

2. Terrible pottery (emphasis on terrible)

I signed up for a pottery class at the community center, mostly because it seemed impossible to mess up.

Spoiler alert: I was wrong.

My first bowl looked like a sad, lopsided ashtray. My second attempt collapsed entirely, oozing clay like a deflated balloon.

But here’s what surprised me—I didn’t care. For two hours every Tuesday, my entire brain was occupied by the feel of clay and the impossible challenge of centering it on the wheel.

There was no space for anxiety about work deadlines, grocery lists, or tomorrow’s to-do list. It was messy, grounding, and humbling in the best way.

Failure didn’t sting here—it entertained me. The wobblier my creations, the more I laughed. And I realized: it’s liberating to do something where skill isn’t the point.

The win was showing up and letting my hands get dirty, not walking away with a perfect vase.

3. Voice memos as mini podcasts

This one started accidentally. I was walking to the grocery store, replaying a conversation I’d had with my sister about our childhood, when I pulled out my phone and started recording a voice memo.

Twenty minutes later, I had what felt like a raw, unfiltered podcast episode.

Soon it became a habit. I recorded while pacing in my living room, while stuck in traffic, while walking the dog.

Sometimes it was a rant. Sometimes it was a pep talk. Sometimes it was just observations about how weirdly satisfying it is to find the perfect avocado.

The beauty of it was that I wasn’t performing for anyone. Unlike journaling, which can sometimes feel like it needs to be “written well,” voice memos captured my messy, in-the-moment thoughts exactly as they were.

Listening back, I often caught patterns—recurring worries, repeated hopes—that I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. It turned into my favorite form of free therapy that cost exactly zero dollars.

4. Photo walks with my phone

I already had the tool, so why not use it differently? Instead of scrolling through other people’s photos, I started taking weekly walks focused solely on capturing interesting light, textures, or moments.

At first, it felt a little silly—snapping a picture of cracked sidewalk tiles or the shadow of a fire escape. But soon, these walks became moving meditations.

I noticed details I’d walked past hundreds of times: the way morning light hit a brick wall, the stubborn little weeds pushing through concrete, how shadows stretched and shifted throughout the day.

The photos weren’t meant for Instagram. They were just for me—tiny visual reminders that beauty isn’t something you buy, it’s something you pay attention to. And every time I scrolled back through my little gallery of textures and colors, I felt calmer, more rooted in the world around me.

5. Cooking without recipes

This terrified my spreadsheet-loving soul, but I committed to one experimental meal per week. No recipes, no measuring cups—just whatever was in my fridge plus intuition.

Some disasters ensued. (RIP to the curry-pasta hybrid that should never see the light of day again.) But surprisingly often, I stumbled into dishes I never would have made otherwise.

A random stir-fry with peanut butter and lime that became a weeknight favorite. A soup born from leftover lentils and roasted veggies that turned into comfort in a bowl.

The real growth wasn’t in the meals themselves—it was in my mindset. Cooking without instructions forced me to trust myself, to take risks, and to accept imperfection.

Even the failures had value because they reminded me that trying and experimenting are worthy acts in themselves. And hey, no spreadsheet could have taught me that.

6. Letters to friends

Remember handwritten letters? I rediscovered them when I found a stack of stationery cards I’d bought years ago but never touched.

Instead of sending quick texts, I started writing actual letters to friends and family.

At first, it felt outdated, even unnecessary. But slowing down to write on paper forced me to think about what I really wanted to share, not just what I could dash off in 140 characters.

Writing about little details of my day, questions I wanted to ask, or memories that resurfaced gave me a depth of connection that texting never had.

The best part? The responses. Several friends told me receiving these letters was the highlight of their week. A few even started writing back.

It reminded me that creating connection—literally with pen and paper—can feel more nourishing than endlessly consuming updates on social media.

7. Ukulele (the gateway drug of instruments)

Four chords. That’s all you need to play dozens of songs on the ukulele. I bought a $50 instrument online and spent fifteen minutes each evening learning.

Within a month, I could strum along to songs I loved. Not concert-worthy, but recognizable, joyful, and mine. The physical coordination required—fingers pressing strings, rhythm keeping time—gave my mind a break from its constant chatter.

The surprise gift was how childlike it felt. Picking up a new instrument made me laugh at myself, root for my own progress, and appreciate small wins.

Playing a clumsy version of a Beatles song at the end of a long day felt like rebellion against perfectionism. It was a reminder that joy doesn’t have to be bought—it can be plucked out of thin air.

8. Micro poetry on random objects

One day, I scribbled a few lines on a sticky note and tucked it into a library book before returning it. That was the beginning of what I now call my “micro poetry phase.”

I started writing tiny poems on post-its and sticking them in random places: bathroom mirrors, jacket pockets, bookshelves at cafés.

Nothing profound—just small observations or encouragements. The constraint of fitting thoughts into such a tiny space forced me to choose words more carefully, almost like solving a puzzle.

The best part wasn’t the writing itself, but imagining someone stumbling across my mini-poem later. Maybe it would make them smile, maybe they’d shrug and toss it.

Either way, it was a form of creation that rippled outward, tiny reminders that creativity can be shared without fanfare.

9. Garden experiments on my windowsill

I killed more plants than I care to admit, but something magical happened when I successfully grew herbs from seeds.

Watching daily progress—tiny shoots breaking through soil, leaves unfolding, stems leaning toward sunlight—connected me to something larger than my immediate concerns.

Even the failures were instructive. Plants taught me patience, attention, and the humbling reality that you can’t rush growth. When I finally harvested basil and sprinkled it on pasta, it felt like a triumph far greater than a grocery store purchase.

Tending to a windowsill garden reminded me that creating doesn’t always look like art. Sometimes it’s cultivating life, learning from mistakes, and finding satisfaction in the slow rhythm of care.

What I discovered about the create versus consume equation

Three months into this experiment, I noticed changes I hadn't expected. My default response to boredom shifted from "What can I buy/watch/read?" to "What can I make/try/explore?" The difference in how I felt afterward was profound.

Consumption left me wanting more—the next episode, the next purchase, the next article.

Creation left me feeling full, like I'd added something to the world instead of just taking from it. Even when what I created was objectively terrible, I felt proud of the attempt.

In his book, Rudá  writes: "When we let go of the need to be perfect, we free ourselves to live fully—embracing the mess, complexity, and richness of a life that's delightfully real."

That encapsulates exactly what this whole process taught me. None of my creations would win awards, and most won’t even be remembered a month from now. But they mattered in the moment because they shifted my focus from performance to participation.

Instead of asking, “Is this good enough?” I started asking, “Did this make me feel alive?”

I realized that creating isn’t about outcomes, it’s about energy.

Consumption drains. Creation, no matter how small, replenishes.

Creation requires presence in a way consumption doesn't. You can mindlessly binge a series, but you can't mindlessly write a poem or shape clay.

And once you taste that difference, it’s hard to go back to filling the void with more stuff.

Final words

My therapist's simple suggestion shifted something fundamental about how I approach satisfaction and fulfillment.

I still consume media, still buy things I need, still enjoy passive entertainment. But now it's balanced with active creation, and that balance has changed everything.

The most surprising discovery? Happiness isn't something you find in stores or streaming services. It emerges when you engage fully with life, when you contribute something uniquely yours to the world, even if that contribution is just a wonky ceramic bowl that holds your keys.

What will you create today?