In June 2024, I was sitting at my desk doing something very simply.

Trying to hold a pen for 30-35 minutes straight.

But my lousy hand wasn't cooperating. The grip felt just a little too weak, a whole lot too unfamiliar. A few days earlier, I’d been in a car accident, and something in my drawing hand wasn't quite right.

So, of course, the thought was there before I could come close to stopping it:

What if I can't draw anymore?

This thing I do every single day. The quotes, the sketches, the live sessions where I'm holding markers for hours. Kind of all of it depends on this grip.

And suddenly, I wasn’t sure I still had it.

Hands have meaning

For me, drawing isn’t just creative work. It’s physical work.

People don’t always see that part. They see the finished piece, the colors, the quotes. They don’t see the hours of gripping pens and markers. The pressure required to get the right line weight. The subtle turns of the wrist that create shading.

My chiropractor friend Chip suggested I try one of those rubber grips that slide over the pen. Make it easier to hold.

Couldn’t do it.

I need to feel the pen. The direct contact between my fingers and the barrel is how I know what’s happening on the page. It’s how I control the pressure, the angle, the movement.

Years of drawing have built something in my hands. Muscle memory that lives in my fingers as much as my brain.

Every eye I’ve drawn makes the next one easier. Every letter, every line, every small decision accumulated into something I don’t have to think about anymore.

Until I thought I might lose it.

Office Supplies

If you’ve been reading along, you know I love pens [Link to Going Smaller Post].

What you might not know is why.

My dad didn’t leave me golf clubs or clothes when he passed. He left me office supplies. Boxes of pens and markers that sat in his desk for years.

I draw with cheap BIC pens partly because there’s a whole art movement around ballpoint drawing. You can turn the tip for different pressure. Shading is just turning it sideways. Simple tools that do more than people expect.

But mostly I use them because of him.

Drawing with those pens connects me to my dad every time I sit down to create something. The fear after that accident wasn’t just about losing the work. It was about losing that daily ritual. The connection that lives in the grip.

What Stays With You

Clearly, the hand healed. The grip came back.

Megan’s mom has told me I should practice drawing with my left hand, just in case something happens to my right. So sometimes I do. You can occasionally tell the difference in those drawings, but sometimes you can’t.

The accident feels like a while ago. But the flickering memory of that fear stays with me. Surprisingly, less about the accident because we were not hurt, and more about what my life would have been like if I could never draw again.

We don’t think much about the things we rely on until they might not be there anymore.

My hands. The grip. The feel of a pen between my fingers. These aren’t just tools for art. They’re part of me. Part of how I connect to my dad. Part of how I show up every morning to create something small that wasn’t there before.

I don’t take them for granted anymore.

Your Grip

What’s the thing you rely on without thinking about it?

Not the big stuff. The small physical acts that define your work, your identity, your daily rhythm.

The voice you use to teach or lead. The hands that build or repair. The eyes that notice what others miss.

Not to scare you. Just to notice.

These things we depend on deserve our attention. Our gratitude.

I’m grateful for the grip. For the pen. For the ability to sit down every morning and make something.

Some days that feels like everything.

Grateful you are here,

Wade