I was sitting at a tiny art table, the kind made for little hands and big imaginations.
My son was beside me, surrounded by his friends — crayons scattered, paper everywhere, that soft chaos that comes with children completely lost in play.
And then the little girl across from me looked up and asked,
“Can you draw me a unicorn?”
Something about the question caught me off guard.
It was so simple. So certain. No hesitation — just the quiet belief that of course I could.
So I picked up a purple pencil.
And for a second… I paused.
Not because I didn’t know how,
but because I couldn’t remember the last time I had.
The lines felt unfamiliar at first. Shaky. Like waking up a part of me that had been resting for too long. But then, something just clicked...
Small details — they came back, not perfectly, but honestly.
I handed it over, thinking nothing of it. A simple cartoon Unicorn.
And then… chaos.
Suddenly there weren’t enough unicorns to go around. Five little girls, all wanting the same piece of paper, all convinced I had drawn it for them. What started as a quiet moment turned into a full-blown chorus of tears, demands and hair pulling.
And right in the middle of it, my son — completely unfazed — looked around and proudly said,
“Yeah, my mummy is good at this stuff. You should see her fish drawing.”
I almost laughed.
But something about it stayed with me.
Not the tantrum. Not even the drawing.
But the way he said it — so certain, so matter-of-fact. Like it was just part of who I am.
And in that small, messy, unexpected moment… something shifted.
A quiet reminder that I’m still in there.
That the part of me that creates, that makes things, that once did it without thinking — she didn’t disappear.
She just hasn’t been asked to show up in a while.
And maybe that’s all it takes sometimes.
Not a big moment.
Not a perfect one.
Just something small, a little chaotic…
and the realisation, right in the middle of it, that she’s still there.
Photo: The Unicorn that disturbed the peace.
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