Work with what you have

What vision-boarding with a 5-year-old taught me

I’ll let you guess whose is whose.

I wasn’t sure what to write about this week. I’m coming off days of an upset stomach and fatigue — days of nothing but bananas and toast, days of trying to diagnose the situation. Is it food poisoning? (No.) A stomach virus? (Not likely.) Another ovarian cyst? (Signs point to yes.) Poorly managed stress? (Well, duh.)

I’ve been getting by as best I can, showing up for my child, for work, for friends in need, but letting a lot slide along the way — all the while feeling like I’m not doing enough. My mind feels as full as my bloated stomach, crowded with the things that are piling up: unread texts, abandoned chores, the lack of exercise, my patient but neglected partner. It’s packed with apologies, with excuses, with worries. It’s full of images from Minneapolis, snippets of scary headlines, reports from friends more plugged in than I’m able to be right now. Everything feels like it’s on fire, and I’m standing nearby, watching, holding a small bucket of water.

I don’t want to write about the fire — not because I don’t care, but because I can’t. I don’t have anything particularly useful or enlightening to add. And besides, I’m sincerely trying to better manage my stress (a tall order, if there ever was one), which means knowing when not to push.

So instead, I’m going to write about making vision boards with an enthusiastic five-year-old and a sorely lacking selection of magazines.

On Saturday, January 3 — the third-to-last day of a winter break that stretched on forever — I asked my daughter if she wanted to make a vision board.

“What’s that?” she asked.

I began by explaining the process of a collage: cutting out and layering items from magazines or other materials. My arts-and-crafts-loving kiddo lit up at this idea, referring to it as a mellage, in a dreamy, reverent voice.

“It’s collage,” I said, emphasizing the hard c. “But yes! You’ve got it.”

Then I explained how a vision board worked: selecting images that represent the kind of year, or life, you’d like to have. “Like, if I wanted to travel more,” I told her, “I might find a picture of a pretty beach.”

“So you cut out the things you like?” she asked.

“Exactly.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Yes! Let’s make a mellage!”

She was too cute, and too genuinely excited, to correct again. “Let’s do it,” I said, pleased with myself for the suggestion.

Then we grabbed the supplies.

Here’s what we had at our disposal:

• Two (2) Highlights magazines from 2022

• One (1) random L.L.Bean catalog

• One (1) particularly depressing issue of The Atlantic

Seeing our source material laid out, I felt discouraged. What could we possibly make from this? There were no images of tropical islands, no stunning vistas, no sun-dappled kitchens. But my daughter, having never made a collage or vision board in her life, was thrilled by the abundance. We soldiered on.

We also had two pairs of scissors; two pieces of construction paper — black, a clever suggestion of hers (“it will make the stuff we cut stand out more!”) — and one sad glue stick: nearly used up, sticky with old residue, passed back and forth like a precious resource.

We did not have glossy design magazines, thick poster paper, or fancy washi tape. We had what we had, and we made it work.

My daughter cut out small items with abandon, scattered across the table like little glimpses into her ever-growing mind. A cartoon cat in a car here. A colorful selection of L.L.Bean’s finest fleeces there. I trimmed with precision — an image of a stream cut into strips, a careful portioning of pleasures.

The process occupied us for a good hour, and we both loved it. When we finished, I took photos of our creations. We were both satisfied with what we’d made — pleased and proud.

Making stuff together is one of my simplest, greatest joys.

Last week, amid all my stomach-churning, doomscrolling, and task-piling, I met my friend Gray for coffee. We talked about a wide range of things — big and small, horrifying and less horrifying — and I could feel my shoulders lower in the presence of someone who shared a similar mindset.

At some point, she mentioned making vision boards with her husband and young children. They, too, worked with a limited supply of magazines. We laughed at the coincidence and talked about the various things our family members had cut out. The next day, I sent her a photo of the collages my daughter and I had made.

“They look great!!” she texted back. “I swear, the stubborn hopeful exercise of crafting a 2026 vision board out of like 3 bare-bones catalogs could be its own post.”

And here we are.

There’s a solid tie-in here, a lesson about taking the tools you have and using them in this moment, no matter how daunting or depressing it may seem. About not needing to buy more stuff before you get started. About how you might have what only feels like a small bucket of water — but it’s still something.

I could close out this essay with a rallying cry, sending you off to take action, to create your own beautiful vision for the future. But I’m tired. And I don’t feel great. The only cry I want right now is a cathartic one — tears streaming down my face, letting myself feel the full weight of this moment.

I hung our vision boards on the refrigerator, where I see them every day. Most of the time, they blend into the background. But sometimes I pause and look more deeply at what we made.

The visions are modest — which makes sense, given our starting point — but no less beautiful. They’re rooted in nature, rest, and creativity. We captured our most basic dreams: I want to focus more on writing; she wants to learn how to read. We made space for other small pleasures, too: eating ice cream, riding a horse, playing games.

Maybe my favorite thing about our vision boards is how possible they feel. They’re a reminder of how to begin. Even with very little, we were able to do a lot.

xoxo
KHG