How I Went From Anxious Player to Hopeful Creator
I need to tell you something honest: I didn’t start making digital paint-by-numbers because I had some grand vision or business plan. I started because I was drowning.
You know that feeling when it’s 2 AM and your brain decides to replay every awkward thing you’ve ever said? Your chest gets tight. Your skin feels too warm. There’s this weight pressing down on your ribs, and suddenly you’re trapped in a highlight reel of your worst moments, each memory sharper and more mortifying than it was when it actually happened.
That was me. Every night. My thoughts doing parkour between seventeen different anxieties, three unfinished projects, and conversations from years ago that no one else even remembered. That jittery, caffeinated feeling even though you haven’t had coffee in hours. The way your jaw clenches without you realizing it.
I needed something.
Anything. ( ´･_･` )
The Accidental Discovery
I stumbled onto a paint-by-numbers app almost by accident. It seemed silly—mindless, even. Pre-determined colors, numbered sections, zero creative decisions required. The kind of thing you’d dismiss as “not real art.”
But I was desperate for five minutes where my brain wasn’t screaming at me.
So I tried it.
And at first? It was awful. My brain treated it like an open mic night. Every worry, every half-formed thought came flooding in. My shoulders tensed up. There was this buzzing under your skin, like static electricity looking for somewhere to ground itself. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat, my fingers, my temples. My hand felt shaky.
I almost deleted the app.
Something Shifted
But I kept going. Partly out of stubbornness, partly because I’d already started and my brain hates leaving things unfinished.
Somewhere around section 47 of that first image, something changed.
My breathing slowed down without me noticing. The knot in my stomach loosened just a fraction. My hands found a rhythm. The chaos didn’t disappear—it was still there, humming in the background—but it got… softer. Like someone turned down the volume just a little. Like my nervous system finally exhaled.
I wasn’t forcing myself to be calm. I wasn’t fighting the noise.
I was just letting it exist.
And focusing on this one small, controllable thing: putting the right color in the right space.
When I finished that first image, I felt something I hadn’t felt in months: a quiet sense of accomplishment. Not because I’d created fine art, but because I’d shown up for myself despite the noise. I’d made something whole even when I felt fragmented.
And in that moment, there was this fleeting sensation of lightness—like I’d set down a weight I didn’t know I was carrying. ( ˘︶˘ )
The Realization
Over the next few weeks, I kept coming back to it. Some nights when the anxiety was bad. Some afternoons when work felt overwhelming. Those tiny numbered sections became a refuge—not from my thoughts, but alongside them.
I started noticing patterns.
The way my shoulders would drop after about ten minutes.
The way my breathing would sync with the repetitive motion.
The gentle defiance of picking up my phone to paint even when everything felt heavy.
Those small victories of completing sections when every part of me wanted to give up and doomscroll instead.
And I thought: If this helped me, maybe it could help someone else.
Not as a cure.
Not as a fix.
But as a tool.
A small act of gentle rebellion against the chaos.
From Player to Creator
That’s why I’m doing this now—creating these digital paint-by-numbers experiences. Not because I think I’ve solved anything or because I have all the answers.
My brain still won’t shut up most nights.
I still have those 2 AM moments.
But I found something that helped, and I want to pass it forward.
I want to create these small, contained spaces where people whose brains won’t quit can just… exist. Where the goal isn’t silence or perfection, but coexistence. Where showing up is enough.
Every image I design, I’m thinking about that person who’s where I was—desperate for five minutes of peace, convinced they’re broken, wondering if they’ll ever feel okay again.
What I Want You to Know
If you’re reading this and your brain won’t shut up:
You’re not too much.
You’re not broken.
You’re not failing at being human.
You’re just someone with a very chatty brain trying to navigate a very loud world.
And honestly?
The fact that you’re still here, still trying, still looking for those small moments of quiet?
That’s low-key heroic. ( •̀ ω •́ )✧
I’m not promising this will fix everything. It didn’t fix everything for me. But it gave me something I desperately needed: proof that I could create small moments of peace despite the noise.
And maybe, just maybe, it can do the same for you.
The Invitation
So here’s what I’m offering: not a solution, but a companion tool for the journey. These little numbered spaces where you can exist messily and beautifully. Where your brain can be loud and you can still create something.
Some people return to it late at night, when sleep refuses to come.
Others open something quiet after work, when their body is exhausted but their mind keeps spinning.
Sometimes it’s just a few sections.
Sometimes it turns into finishing the whole image without noticing the time.
There’s no right way to use it.
No pressure to be consistent.
Just something steady you can come back to when everything feels loud. ( ´︶` )
Keep Going
Your brain might not shut up, but you’re allowed to create peace anyway.
Keep filling in those little numbered spaces.
Keep searching for those tiny pockets of calm.
Keep existing in whatever messy, beautiful way you can manage.
I’m here, creating these spaces for you, because I remember what it’s like to need them.
And you’re not alone in the noise.
Written by someone whose brain still won’t shut up, but who found a way to coexist with it—and wants to help you find yours.
