Creating Without a Purpose: How I Learned to Make Just Because

There’s a question that haunts most creative work: What is this for?

Is it going to be shared? Will it earn money? Does it make sense? Will people like it? Is it original enough, useful enough, good enough?

Somewhere along the way, we’re taught that creativity must be productive. That making things is only worthwhile if it leads to a result. A post. A product. A performance. But before there were algorithms and platforms and feedback loops, there was something simpler: play.

There was making for the joy of making. Drawing in the margins. Humming a made-up song. Rearranging pebbles at the edge of the sidewalk because it felt good. That kind of creativity gets buried, but it never really leaves.

This is a story about digging it up again. About what happens when you create without a plan, a pitch, or a point—just because.

The Pressure to Justify

I used to make things constantly. Stories, sketches, small odd projects that no one asked for. But at some point, my creative life got entangled with outcome. If I was going to write something, it had to become a blog post. If I was painting, I needed to share a photo. If I had an idea, I immediately asked, “How can I use this?”

Everything started to feel like content. Even journaling. Even dreaming.

Eventually, I stopped starting. If I didn’t have a clear purpose or plan, I wouldn’t make anything at all. It felt safer that way—no waste, no risk. But it also felt emptier. Like a part of me had gone quiet.

The Shift: Making Just Because

One rainy Saturday, I found an old notebook and started doodling. Just loops and swirls, no meaning, no message. I didn’t plan to show anyone. I didn’t even plan to keep it. But something in me woke up while I moved the pen. It wasn’t about beauty or message. It was about motion. Freedom. Play.

That afternoon opened a door. I started doing things again just to do them—cutting paper into shapes, recording tiny poems, baking oddly shaped cookies with no recipe. I stopped asking, “What is this for?” and started asking, “What feels fun right now?”

It felt like re-learning a language I used to speak fluently as a child.

What I Discovered

When I removed the pressure to produce, I found space. Spaciousness in my mind, my day, my heart. Creativity became light again—less like a job and more like a dance.

Here’s what surprised me most:

• I felt more alive. Even silly creations lit up something real inside me. They reminded me I wasn’t just here to function. I was here to feel, to explore, to play.
• I took more risks. Without the pressure to make something good, I was willing to try strange ideas, to mess up, to enjoy the mess itself.
• I rediscovered curiosity. I followed threads without knowing where they’d lead. I googled weird questions. I played with sounds. I let myself wonder again.
• I stopped needing permission. I wasn’t waiting to be hired, published, validated. I was already creating—freely, quietly, on my own terms.

The Resistance Was Real

Still, I bumped into resistance. A voice in my head whispered, “This is a waste of time.” That voice sounded responsible, adult, efficient. But when I listened too long, I started to feel hollow.

We’re taught to tie our worth to productivity. But creativity doesn’t always move in straight lines. Sometimes it loops and spirals. Sometimes it leads nowhere except back to yourself.

Creating just because may not build your resume, but it will build your spirit. And that matters too.

Ways to Create Without a Purpose

You don’t have to call yourself an artist. You don’t need expensive supplies or a perfect schedule. You just need a little space—and a willingness to begin.

Here are some prompts that helped me loosen the grip of outcome:

• Make something you won’t keep. Scribble on scrap paper. Build a sand sculpture. Bake a one-time dessert. Let it exist and disappear.
• Set a timer and create freely. Ten minutes. No editing. No stopping. Just create. Then move on.
• Give yourself permission to make something “bad.” Ugly art. Nonsense poems. Weird color choices. Let go of good.
• Use materials you already have. Don’t overthink. What’s within reach? What can you play with right now?
• Invent your own rules. Write a story backwards. Use only five words. Draw without lifting your pen. See what happens.

The Joy of Meaningless Creation

What I found in these small acts wasn’t meaning in the traditional sense. It was presence. The joy of doing something for no other reason than the doing itself.

Like singing in the shower. Like humming while you fold laundry. Like dancing alone in your kitchen at midnight.

It reminded me that creativity doesn’t always have to be harnessed. Sometimes it just wants to roam. To breathe. To remind you that life can be lighter than you think.

Letting the Process Lead

Interestingly, once I let go of purpose, some of my favorite ideas emerged. Not because I forced them, but because I followed curiosity. When you create freely, you plant seeds you didn’t mean to plant. And some of them bloom in beautiful, unexpected ways.

But even when nothing “useful” comes from it, the process itself is worthwhile. It reconnects you to your aliveness. And that’s more than enough.

What If You Gave Yourself One Hour?

Just one hour this week. No audience. No agenda. No performance. Just you, creating something for the joy of it.

Write a letter you’ll never send. Doodle while listening to music. Play with colors, textures, words. Make a collage of phrases cut from magazines. Hum. Pretend. Wonder.

Let yourself be surprised.

Remembering What You Already Know

At its core, creativity is less about outcome and more about engagement. A way of meeting the world with openness. A way of meeting yourself with kindness. A way of saying, “I’m here. I’m paying attention. I’m still willing to try.”

Creating without a purpose isn’t childish. It’s sacred. It’s how you return to a quieter, truer version of yourself—the one who doesn’t need to prove anything, just be.

A Small Invitation

Not everything needs to lead somewhere. Some things can just be. A scribble. A moment. A spark. A breath.

So here’s your invitation: make something today that won’t impress anyone. That won’t sell or scale or go viral. Make something just because.

And in doing so, see if you remember the part of yourself that never forgot how.

— Ann Sims