On Hunger & Consumption
embracing the slow seasons of creativity
As we step into a new year, I’ve been reflecting on the idea of consumption. Not just in the material sense—though that’s part of it—but in the ways we consume time, energy, and ambition. Before I had children, I was the queen of New Year planning. I made month-by-month strategies, six-month check-ins, and one-year plans. There were reviews, lists, and spreadsheets. I analyzed what brought me joy and what drained me, what made me proud, and what felt like wasted time.
It wasn’t just a ritual; it was a hamster wheel of self-improvement. The new year gave me the gift of reflection, but also this constant hunger to do more, be more, and achieve more. I thought about time and money as things to optimize—asking myself if I was spending either on the “right” things. Useless purchases that would end up donated to a thrift store in a year? Or meaningful experiences? There was clarity in that process, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it sometimes.
But that way of being doesn’t fit my life anymore.
When my life moved faster, I was hungry. Hungry to make more films, write more, take on more speaking gigs, save more, spend more—always chasing the next thing. But I had a deficit, and that deficit was in relationships. Those plans were all about me: how I could do more, achieve more, and be better. Sure, I relied on the help of others, but the goals weren’t communal. I was competing—not with anyone else, but with myself.
And I don’t mean the good kind of competition, the kind that motivates and sharpens. I mean the kind that’s relentless and cruel, the kind that holds you to impossible standards and punishes you when you inevitably fall short. I criticized myself for not doing enough, even when “enough” was unreasonable to begin with.
So I stopped making yearly plans.
Not because planning is bad. Not because reflection isn’t valuable. But because that kind of rigid, self-centered planning no longer encouraged me. It depressed me.
It took me time to accept that this season of my life is simply different. Not better or worse—just different. What worked in my mid-20s, when I could happily work 14-hour days, doesn’t work now. If I tried to compete with that version of myself, I’d come in dead last.
This season of life requires different rhythms. Slower ones. More intentional ones.
But I’ve learned that stepping away from detailed yearly plans doesn’t mean abandoning conscious living altogether. Instead, I’ve shifted my focus. My plans are less about how much I can achieve in a year and more about who I want to become in three years, not just as a filmmaker or artist, but as a mother, a friend, a daughter, and a neighbor.
These days, one year feels too short to dream deeply—it flies by in a blur. The things that matter most unfold slowly over years.
Stories and Seasons
I have always been someone who is drawn to stories because of the people in them. The medium—film—hasn’t always been my first instinct. I’ve worked across formats: writing, podcasting, short films, interactive projects, feature verité films, hybrid films. Right now, I’m writing a book, and while that feels fun in theory, in practice it terrifies me.
I tend to choose projects that challenge my abilities. It would probably be easier—and certainly more predictable—to choose a path and stick with it. But I get bored.
I loved making observational films and got really good at telling stories without sit-down interviews. Then, just as I started to feel bored with that approach, people began to hire me to do it. So, I still take those projects to pay the bills, but I also started exploring new ways of storytelling. With King Coal, for example, I stepped into entirely unfamiliar territory—casting, performance, and production design. I had to think in ways I never had before, and that was thrilling.
But now, as I have stated in previous posts, I don’t really know what my next big project is.
To be clear, I’m working. I’m taking on projects that pay the bills. But my projects—the ones that come from deep inside me—take longer to boil up. When I get impatient, usually when someone asks me what my next film is, I have to remind myself that the work I’m proudest of has always taken a while to seed and sprout.
Some people can jump from one personal project to another. I can do that with paid or commissioned work because it’s necessary. But for the projects that take years to fundraise, dream up, make, throw away, reimagine, and finally birth into the world? Those take time.
Rachel Schwartzmann on hunger
This morning, I picked up Rachel Schwartzmann’s book Slowing: Discover Wonder, Beauty, and Creativity Through Slow Living.
Beck had woken up earlier than expected, and I found myself tiptoeing around the house in the quiet stillness of 5:50 a.m., careful not to wake Remy. I opened to a passage on hunger—a concept I’ve been turning over in my mind a lot lately. Rachel writes:
"We simultaneously are told to rest but can never rest assured when we're told what we're doing is enough. We have an appetite for work and then work to satisfy our appetite."
Rachel writes about how hunger drives us toward extremes:
"Doesn't it seem like we've devolved into content cannibals? That we create for survival just as much as for substance? That we let ourselves be consumed by the expectations and validation of others?"
It made me ask - How often have I created something because I felt I had to? Because I felt the need to stay relevant, to keep producing, to prove my worth?
I’ve been thinking about what it would mean to shift my hunger—to create from hunger rather than for it. To make work not because I feel like I need to keep up or stay visible, but because the process itself feels vital.
Rachel’s metaphor of a menu resonated with me deeply:
"If I created a menu of what I want to make for my life moving forward, it would include messy shared plates topped with inside jokes and weird facts. Main courses filled with more time for literally anything other than screen time. A dessert buffet: bite-size hobbies, sweet thrills, tangy truths, dollops of compassion."
Reading her words, I couldn’t help but think about my own “menu” for the year ahead.
I imagine it would be filled with the small, grounding rituals —slow mornings with my family, unhurried cups of coffee, quiet walks in the woods, potlucks prepared and shared with neighbors, creating something just for me, and volunteering my time to others. It would include projects that push me to grow, stretching my creativity in new and unfamiliar directions, but also the patience and grace to allow those projects the time they need to unfold. Most importantly, it would include living in connection with others—finding ways to be of service, and resisting the urge to isolate my life as an island.
My menu would be less about feeding the endless appetite of the world and more about savoring what truly nourishes me.
None of these things are ambitious. None of them will impress anyone. But they ground me. They keep me attentive to the season of life I’m in right now.
Because the truth is, I’m done with hustle culture. It feeds no one except the people at the top. It doesn’t nourish me. It grinds me down. It turns my days into a relentless machine, my meals into afterthoughts, my life into a series of to-dos. Hustle culture prioritizes convenience and consumption over creativity and resourcefulness. And I don’t want to live like that.
Amid the chaos of the world, I’m reminded daily how fortunate I am to live this life—and with that gratitude comes a responsibility to show up for my community. I’m committed to staying informed, serving where I can make a meaningful impact, and extending compassion both near and far. It’s a small effort in the face of so much, but it’s one I can make.
So, as I step into this new year, I’m not chasing big resolutions or long lists of goals. Instead, I’m committing to daily slow-downs and long-term hopes. This year, I’ll focus on becoming the person I hope to be (maybe) three years from now: a storyteller deeply rooted in my community, an artist who remains curious and open, a mother who’s fully present, a friend who listens with care, a partner who uplifts and supports, a neighbor who shows up in times of need, an advocate for the unheard, and a helping hand for those who need it most.
The year will fly by—it always does. But maybe, with small daily actions, I can stretch time just enough to feel its weight.
Happy New Year.
P.S.
I’d love to hear how you are planning for 2025.
What a lovely piece—and thank you so much for reading SLOWING! I'm glad it's resonating. Your menu for the year sounds delicious in all the right ways. 🙂