The Toll It Takes
Balancing family, work, and art comes with a cost. A reflection on exhaustion, doubt, and the quiet hope that the sacrifices behind creative work are worth it.
There’s a problem with my life.
I have commitments. A lot of them.
I’m a father to a two-year-old daughter who completely owns my heart. I’m a husband. I’m the handyman fixing whatever breaks around the house. I’m a factory worker stuck on what feels like indefinite overtime. And somewhere in that list — sometimes barely hanging on — I’m also a stone carver.
And if something has to go, it’s always that last title sitting on the chopping block.
The doubt creeps in constantly. Am I even good enough? All it takes is a few broken tools, a round of maintenance and cleanup, and then another brutally hard stone that takes three times longer to carve than expected — and suddenly the whole effort feels impossible.
Most nights the work happens when no one else is around. After a ten-hour shift, after the house quiets down, I’ll drag myself toward the studio with a cup of coffee for courage. Sometimes I get an hour in. Often it’s less. If I were being honest, the time I spend making art is usually borrowed directly from sleep.
In other words, my art is carved out of exhaustion.
That kind of life has a cost. It throws balance out the window. I’ve put off basic things — doctor’s appointments, the maintenance of my own body — the way someone ignores the oil light in their car for too long. I used to run to keep myself grounded, to work out the stress and the aches. That’s fallen away too.
Fun? I’m not even sure what that looks like anymore.
So sometimes I look at this situation and ask myself: what exactly is this all for?
If the goal were money, it would be a terrible trade. The tools alone cost more than the work brings back most of the time. I’ve invested in equipment simply to make the process faster — trying to squeeze creation into the cracks of a life that’s already overflowing.
Financially, it doesn’t make sense.
But there’s something else that keeps me going.
A small, stubborn glimmer of hope that what I’m trying to say through the stone actually matters. That the message buried in these pieces will reach someone. That the time and effort — the literal blood, dust, and aching joints — might carry some kind of meaning beyond the object itself.
Maybe something bordering on spiritual worth.
That hope is thin sometimes, but it’s enough to keep the tools moving.
Because when you commit to making something real, you can’t always measure the value immediately. You just keep carving and trust that somewhere along the line, the work will justify the sacrifice.
At least, that’s the hope.
Because if I’m honest — on nights when the exhaustion hits hardest — I still find myself asking the same question:
Is it worth it?
I truly hope it is.
