Sixteen years ago, Chicago bullied me into reclaiming my creativity. Last week, it reminded me why I still need it. Back then, I had just weaned my fifth child and was clawing my way out of the gray world of postpartum depression. I arrived in Chicago wrung out, hollowed, and unsure if the creative part of me still existed at all. But my mom, my sister, and the city itself immersed me in beauty and color until something inside me flickered back to life. That was the seed of my writing journey.
This time, I came carrying a different kind of exhaustion — the quiet, accumulated kind that settles in when your children are nearly grown and you’ve spent years meeting deadlines, expectations, and everyone else’s needs first. I didn’t realize how faded I’d become until the plane touched down and I felt that old spark tug at me again.
Sparks of Joy
On the first morning, my sister and I climbed aboard the L and rattled our way into the city. Chicago rose around us in steel blue and granite gray, all sharp lines and broad shoulders. But there were pops of color:
- Orange and golden tulips
- Colorful window displays in Marshall Fields (I mean, Macy’s)
- My spring-green box of Frango mint truffles.
Even before the architecture sightseeing river cruise began, I could feel the city working on me — the way it always has — loosening something tight in my chest.
The city was big enough to dwarf me. Big enough to intimidate me. But instead of shrinking, I felt myself expanding. The scale of Chicago didn’t make me feel small; it made me feel capable. As the boat curved along the river – the deep green ribbon slicing through the Loop – my brain began stitching together ideas I’d been too tired to face at home. They were still messy, still half‑formed, but they were alive. And so was I.
Filling my Soul with Art
On day two, we visited the Art Institute of Chicago. We greeted the verdigris-coated lions at the entrance — guardians of the museum. Inside, my sister led me straight to the Thorne miniatures. Sixteen years ago, I tried to capture them with my brand‑new digital camera, only to end up with blurry, disappointing photos. This time, I didn’t even lift my phone. I let myself simply look — really look — at the tiny, delicate, detailed, worlds. Each was a jewel box of color and memory, distilled into a foot of space. I gave myself permission to stop documenting and start absorbing again.
Then we climbed the grand staircase, and I came face‑to‑face with the Tiffany stained‑glass window. The gorgeous deep green glass, mottled to look like sun-dappled leaves, framed a dozen shades of blue glass that looked like flowing water. I stood there, studying the waterfall and the valley rendered in glass — not copied, but interpreted. Translated.
It struck me that this is what fiction does too: it refracts truth through imagination.
I felt something shift inside me, a quiet click of recognition.
We wandered into the Impressionist galleries next. Monet’s haystacks lined the walls — a half dozen of them – each one a study in changing light. Lavender shadows, peach‑colored dawns, and warm, gold‑washed afternoons. I’ve always loved them, but this time I saw something new: the persistence. Monet’s willingness to paint the same subject again and again until the understanding deepens. It reminded me of how I keep writing about my hearing loss, circling it from different angles, trying to learn what it means.
Shining, Shimmering Whimsy
After the galleries, we made our pilgrimage to the Bean. It’s officially called Cloud Gate, but to me it will always be the Bean — the city’s giant, joyful fun‑house mirror. The chrome surface bent the skyline into ribbons of silver and blue, and my red coat streaked across it like a spark. Every time I visit, I feel like a little girl again, laughing at the way my reflection stretches and bends across the chrome. It’s impossible to take yourself too seriously when the city is literally warping your face into a grin.
On our way back to the train, we ducked into the Chicago Cultural Center. We didn’t get far — just the stairwell — but it was enough. Mosaics shimmered across the arches and walls, tiny pieces of glass arranged into literary quotes that glowed in blues, greens, and golds. Above us, the domed atrium glittered like a bowl of light, chairs arranged for a wedding later that evening. It felt like walking into a blessing — a reminder that new chapters can begin anywhere, even in a building that once housed a library.
Nourishing My Soul
Throughout the weekend, I ate my way through Chicago in the best possible way.
- A Polish sandwich from the Billy Goat Tavern — all warm browns and mustard yellows – no‑nonsense and deeply satisfying.
- A Buono Beef sandwich so messy it felt like a metaphor for the manuscript I’m wrestling into shape – dripping, chaotic, and delicious.
- And then the Rainbow Cone, stacked like a vertical sunset: bright orange sherbet, pale green pistachio, creamy Parker House studded with ruby cherries, soft pink strawberry, and deep chocolate at the base. It tasted like nostalgia and courage layered together — a reminder that joy can be colorful and unapologetically messy.
But the biggest feast of the trip was Hamilton. My sister scored us incredible seats — first balcony, close enough to feel the energy from the stage. The lights washed the actors in golds, blues, and scarlet. My eyes bounced between the ASL interpreters — hands flashing like quicksilver — and the actors, all fire and movement. It was like watching the story in two languages at once — movement and music, gesture and color. A whirlwind kaleidoscope in the best possible way.
As a writer, I was mesmerized. The precision. The rhythm. The choices. The way a life can be distilled into a few hours without losing its epic sweep. I left the theater buzzing, full of ideas about storytelling, craft, and the kind of magic that only comes from relentless revision.
Stretching into New Possibilities
Each night, after a full day of activities, after long talks and laughter, after the late‑night binge‑watching — I tackled my current manuscript. I wrote over a thousand words each night in Chicago. Not because I forced myself to, but because I couldn’t not write. The city had shaken something loose, and the words finally had somewhere to go. My words shook off their grayscale mediocrity and came alive again.
On the last day, when my plane lifted off from O’Hare, the skyline filled my window and gratitude filled everything else. I was thankful for my sister, who insisted we needed this time. Thankful for my husband, who kept the household running while I was gone. But mostly, I was thankful for Chicago — its grit, its beauty, its stubborn insistence on rising.
I know the city has been through a hard year. Scrutiny. Struggle. Headlines that flatten its complexity. But from the river, from the streets, from the galleries and theaters and stairwells, Chicago felt like a place still insisting on possibility.
The docent on the architecture river cruise shared a quote from Daniel Burnham, the man behind the 1909 Plan of Chicago:
“Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men’s blood…”
Those words have lodged themselves in me. In my writing. In my growth. In the daily joys I’m rediscovering. I’m dreaming big. Planning big. Giving myself permission to write the ideas that feel too big for my current skills. Ideas full of color and possibility.
Let’s do this BIG.
I have the perfect song about stretching and rejuvenation!
Level Up – Vienna Teng
It starts like a Lo Fi vibe but builds and builds like the best kind of pep talks.