Commemorating our creative wins
Virgo season always gets me thinking about structure. Not just the kind that shows up on tidy desks or in neatly blocked calendars, but the subtler kind: the ways we choose to hold and honor the work we’re doing.
In my own writing practices—and through my 1:1 mentorship containers—I’m always noticing a particular duality in the creative process. First, there are these stretches of time when everything feels invisible: we’re showing up, we’re tending, we’re doing the quiet composting work beneath the surface—but because there’s nothing tangible to point to, it can feel like nothing’s happening. But then, there are those other moments—the breakthroughs, the tangible “clicks,” the small-but-vivid wins where suddenly the work feels alive, visible, even measurable.
Both of these states are vital. Both are real. And both arise from the natural rhythms of a creative life.
But when those latter moments arrive—the ones that can be seen, the ones most primed to inspire feelings of pride—I think it matters so, so much how we receive them.
Beyond “capturing” the moment
Historically and habitually, I’ve often reached for the language of capturing when talking about those moments. “Let’s capture this good feeling,” I’ll say to myself or a client, wanting to encourage that we hold onto the good data wherever we can.
But the more I say that word, the less it feels right. “Capture” implies control, even scarcity—like the moment might disappear if we don’t pin it down fast enough.
So I paused, and I brainstormed, rooting around in my head until I landed on a word that felt really nice in my body: commemoration.
Commemorate comes from the Latin com (“altogether”) and memorare (“to relate, to be mindful”).
Just look at that root system! Altogether-ness + relating + mindfulness. [Swoon…]
When we commemorate, we aren’t capturing our accomplishments and putting them behind glass; we’re relating to our own capabilities. We’re gathering ourselves together in a kind of kinship, acknowledging: yes, this happened, and I did good work, and that matters to me.
Why commemoration is vital
We commemorate our wins not to prove progress to others, but to mark the ways we’ve been in relationship with our own work. Commemorating the wins is something we do, first and foremost, for ourselves.
Sometimes the win is tangible—a draft finished, a poem published, a chapter that finally came together. Sometimes it’s quieter: a flicker of clarity, a sentence that pleasantly surprises you; a moment where our voice sounds more true than it did the day before. Sometimes it’s even subtler still—those rare, expansive minutes when the adjectives “good” and “bad” fall away entirely, and we’re just in the creative channel, making, not unlike how a child might.
These moments are worth remembering, not because they make us “legit,” but because they help sustain us in the stretches when the composting feels invisible. They remind us that the work remains alive inside us. And that we are alive in the work.
How to commemorate
Commemoration practices don’t have to be grand or glamorous. In my experience, the best methods are small, quiet, and entirely your own.
You might:
jot down the win in your notebook—not just the details itself but the feeling it gave you.
pause and light a candle, breathing gratitude both in and out.
share the moment with a trusted friend who loves to celebrate you.
or simply sit for a moment longer in the glow of it, noticing how your body feels when you say to yourself, I did it.
These tiny commemorations build a thread of memory and meaning in your body and brain. They weave continuity between the unseen stretches and the shining ones. And they become part of your creative structure—the architecture Virgo season so lovingly reminds us to tend.
This, to me, is what it means to honor the creative life: not just the work produced, but the moments along the way. The insights. The flickers of aliveness. The kinship we can cultivate with ourselves when we pause to notice.
What I want you to know today:
Your wins—no matter how small, strange, or intangible—are worth commemorating.
Commemorate them!
May you gather yourself altogether, in mindfulness and creative care.
May your writing be held by structures that keep you firm, but not locked in.
May your practices sustain your energy, not drain it.
And, when you find yourself in need of support and kinship along the way, may you always remember that my door is open.
