My Website Had an Identity Crisis. All Five Identities Were Mine.

by Artemis | Sep 8, 2026 | 0 comments

My branding was woefully inconsistent.

The website worked, technically. It just looked as though five different people had built it—and unfortunately, all five were me.

Every version of my business was still in there somewhere. Different colours. Different fonts. Different images. Different ways of explaining what I do.

Nothing was necessarily terrible on its own. Together, it felt like a village where every building had been designed by someone who refused to attend the planning meeting.

It was time to rebuild.

Before the website came the brand

I could’ve started moving boxes around and choosing prettier colours. That would’ve been fun for approximately twenty minutes. Then I would’ve created another page that looked lovely but had no particular relationship with the rest of the website.

So I stopped and worked on the brand first.

And I mean really worked on it.

I wanted to understand more than which shade of teal belonged on a button. I wanted to know what TechAlchemy should feel like to the people who arrive here.

The people I work with are often neurodivergent founders, makers, and creative business owners. They know their work. They care deeply about what they’re building. They’re not incapable of using technology.

They’re usually dealing with technology that expects them to remember seventeen steps, six passwords, and one setting buried under a menu last seen in 2019.

I don’t want my website to add to that feeling.

I want it to feel welcoming. Interesting. A little playful. Knowledgeable without looming over anyone in a suit and demanding to know whether they’ve optimized their funnel.

Most importantly, I want people to understand that their brain isn’t the problem.

Once I had a brand profile that reflected all of that, I loved it.

Then I looked at the website again.

Well.

The buildings began attending planning meetings

I started with the main pages: the landing page, How I Help, The Village, and About Me.

Slowly, the website began to look like one place.

The typography matched. The colours belonged together. The images felt as though they came from the same slightly peculiar world. The words sounded more like me and less like something assembled from several years of business advice.

It wasn’t simply prettier.

It was easier to understand.

People could move from one page to another without wondering whether they’d accidentally wandered into a neighbouring business.

That’s one of the things I’ve come to appreciate about branding. It isn’t just decoration. A good brand removes decisions.

I don’t have to choose a new heading style every time I build a page. I don’t have to wonder whether a button should be teal, orange, lime green, or something I found while unsupervised in a colour picker.

The brand remembers those decisions for me.

That’s useful because I have other things to remember. Allegedly.

Then I reached the blog

I wanted the blog to match the rest of the site.

This seemed reasonable.

The blog became Notes from Artemis’s Worktable, which feels much more like what it actually is: things I’ve learned while trying to make technology, AI, fiber arts, creative work, and business coexist peacefully.

The design came together beautifully.

Then I discovered the editor had developed a hobby.

Whenever I published a post and began writing another one, the previous post turned up again.

Not in a useful “Here’s a clean template for your next article” way.

More in a “Hello, I’m your last blog post and I live here now” way.

Titles, excerpts, layouts, and content had become tangled together. Some posts had images. Some didn’t. Some had titles and excerpts but appeared to have misplaced the actual article.

This wasn’t a blogging system. It was a junk drawer with a publish button.

The website was making me remember too much

The more we untangled it, the clearer the real problem became.

The website relied on hidden rules.

Use this editor, except when you shouldn’t. Duplicate this, but not that. Change this setting first. Don’t touch the other one. Remember which parts belong to the post and which parts belong to the template.

I’m sure this system made perfect sense at some point.

Many questionable systems do.

The trouble is that a system isn’t very helpful if it only works when I remember all its private rituals.

That’s especially true on a low-energy day. Or a busy day. Or a perfectly ordinary Tuesday when my brain has decided that remembering where I put my tea is already enough responsibility.

The system should remember how it works so I don’t have to.

So that’s what we rebuilt.

The website template now handles the title, date, featured image, typography, spacing, and everything else that should remain consistent.

The ordinary WordPress editor holds the article.

When I start a new post, I get a blank page.

You wouldn’t think a blank page would feel like a technological achievement, but here we are.

Some things were missing

While fixing the publishing system, I discovered that some older articles were missing their content.

The titles were there. The excerpts were there. WordPress knew that something had once existed.

But when I checked the revisions, the article itself had been replaced by a Divi placeholder.

It was the website equivalent of finding a carefully labelled storage box with absolutely nothing inside it.

I could’ve kept digging.

I could’ve searched through older databases, hosting backups, cached versions, abandoned files, and every digital cupboard I’ve used in the past five years.

For a moment, I considered it.

Then I remembered that I have a business to run and a finite number of hours in which to run it.

I’m not going to spend time I don’t have chasing posts I may never recover.

Some might be worth rewriting. Others can stay wherever missing blog posts go when they wander off unsupervised.

I’d rather build something that works going forward.

What I’m keeping from all of this

The website finally feels like the business I’m building now—not every version of the business I’ve ever considered building.

The brand gives me a way to make decisions without starting from scratch each time.

The templates handle the repetitive parts.

The editor lets me write.

And I’ve been reminded that stopping is sometimes part of fixing a problem.

Not every old thing needs to be recovered. Not every mystery needs to be solved. Sometimes the useful choice is to close the backup screen, make another cup of tea, and carry on with a better system.

This post exists because I stopped trying to recover an old one and wrote something new instead.

That feels like a decent trade.

Until next time friends...

When Life Gave Me Lemons I Got Busy

by Artemis | May 21, 2026 | 0 comments

I want to tell you about today.

This morning someone handed me a lemon. A small one in the grand scheme of things — but it stung in that particular way that only happens when it comes from people you've shown up for.

I sat with it for a few minutes, got a little angry, and then did what I always do.

I got busy.

What I Built Today

I've been planning a NotebookLM workshop for May 27th. I've run workshops before - slides, screen share, the usual. They work. But they've never felt like me.

Today I decided to fix that.

I build virtual spaces on a platform called Rippily. And today I asked myself a question I'd never asked before:

What if the workshop room didn't just host the learning - what if it WAS the thing being learned?

The Room IS NotebookLM

NotebookLM is a Google AI tool that lets you load your own sources - books, articles, PDFs, YouTube videos - and have a conversation with them. Instead of reading six books cover to cover, you talk to all six at once. It pulls answers from your sources, shows you the exact passage it pulled from, and never makes things up.

I wanted participants to feel that before I said a single word about it.

So I built a room that looks like you're standing inside NotebookLM.

The back wall is a floor to ceiling glowing bookshelf - your sources, lit up and waiting. The left wall is the live chat interface. The right wall is the Studio panel. The ceiling is a constellation of neural connections - what it looks like when ideas from six different books start talking to each other.

Every wall has a purpose. Every element is interactive. The room reveals itself as the learning unfolds.

And through the windows? Lake Louise. Because I'm Canadian and I do what I want.

The Moment

My Grade 9 science teacher once stood on his desk and said "this classroom is a cell. The paint is the cell membrane and we are all cytoplasm."

I never forgot that lesson.

That's what I built today. A room where you don't watch someone explain a tool. You stand inside it.
Have you ever used NotebookLM and wondered what it would actually feel like to be inside it?

There's one moment near the end of the workshop where something happens in the room that I genuinely cannot wait for people to experience. I'm not going to tell you what it is.

You'll have to come and see.

The Workshop

TechAlchemy101 runs on the third Wednesday of every month. Each one covers a different tool for creative brains and neurospicy founders who are done being overwhelmed by technology.

The NotebookLM workshop is May 27th at 3pm Eastern. It's free.

One More Thing

To the people who handed me the lemon this morning - no hard feelings.

These things happen.

But here's what also happens - sometimes the lemon is exactly what you needed to get moving.

The silence didn't make me smaller.

It reminded me who I actually build things for.

Not bad for a rough morning. 🍁

Until next time friends...

The Hudson & Rex Effect (aka: “Why am I like this?”)

by Artemis | Mar 5, 2026 | 0 comments

I just watched the most recent episode of Hudson & Rex. And yes, I spent the entire episode thinking, I should be doing something.

It is hilarious because apparently I’m now the kind of person who can’t even enjoy a TV show without running a background process called Guilt.exe.

But listen. I love that show. It’s cozy. It’s predictable. There’s a dog who is always more competent than the humans. What’s not to like? This episode though... whew. It gave me the same vibe as watching Sharknado. Not in a “wow, cinema” way. In a “this is objectively ridiculous but I cannot stop watching” way. It was the long, extra long, Monty Pythonesque wave goodbye.

You know the one.

Okay. That’s finally over. Now get to work.

And then my brain immediately goes: Cool. Great. Love that. But get to work on WHAT?

The To-Do List That Eats Your Soul

On the surface, I’m a responsible adult person who has normal adult tasks like cleaning the kitchen and doing laundry. I also have a website I started revamping that I accidentally turned into a digital crime scene.

And then, simmering in the back of my brain like a witchy little cauldron, there’s The Idea.

Not a cute little “maybe someday” idea. A fantastic, feral, bursting out of my ribs idea. A Ripple for the Global Business Plaza EXPO coming up in June. It started with a first person POV kayaking video on Pixabay and it hit that sweet spot where visuals become feelings and feelings become a whole dang project.

Now it is scenes and layers and vibes. I am out here casually building a Murder Mystery Adventure like that’s a normal Tuesday activity. The worst part is that learning these tools has inspired an even cooler, even more fun secret idea for my booth at the EXPO.

So I’m back to the question: WTF first?

Logic vs. The Neurospicy Brain

If I go by logic, I do the laundry first. We hang it on racks to dry, which takes a while but honestly is worth it. It’s like saving money while also turning my living space into a textile installation titled “This Is Fine.”

Then clean the kitchen. Except I hate this chore. Like... spiritually.

Kitchen cleaning isn’t a task. It’s a vibe assassin. It steals my will to create and replaces it with a desire to stare out the window and disappear into the forest. But I need it done before PYPT. I need the headspace. And I need my website to stop looking like I tossed it down the stairs and called it a redesign.

This is what it’s like inside the mind of a neurospicy creative. Are we all living in a constant state of “I’m overwhelmed but also aggressively inspired”?

The Moment Where I Try to Be Wise

At some point, I stop pacing mentally and try to “define my energy scale.” Which sounds reasonable, except my energy scale is basically:

0: Can’t move.
3: Can move but resentful.
7: Can do one thing before I need a snack and a dramatic lie-down.
10: Unstoppable for 47 minutes, then suddenly asleep like a fainting goat.

So I tell myself: Do what I must. Energy scale doesn’t matter.

Laundry is the keystone. It takes time to dry. It is the thing that quietly becomes a bigger problem if I ignore it. It’s the task that future me will either thank me for or curse me over while hunting for clean underwear like it’s an escape room.

The Dice Moment

Once you’ve picked the “must,” the next question is: Do you just roll the dice at this point? Because after laundry, there’s still the kitchen, the website chaos, and The Idea knocking on the inside of my skull like: Hello?? You’re going to explode if you don’t start me soon??

Creative ideas don’t politely wait in line. They pace. They shout. They get louder the longer you ignore them. For neurospicy brains, inspiration isn’t just fun. It’s pressure. It’s momentum.

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My Current Best Method

Here is what I’m trying lately:

Do the time-sensitive “must” first. Laundry is time sensitive because drying takes forever.
Do the “energy leak” second. The kitchen is an energy leak. I don’t like it, but it drains me just knowing it exists.
Give the creative idea a controlled bite. Not a full feast. A bite. A starter. If I don’t touch it at all, my brain keeps screaming. If I touch it too much, I disappear for six hours and forget I have a body.

So the plan is: Start laundry. While it’s running, do a short kitchen reset. Not “perfect,” just “less insulting.” Then: 20 minutes on the Murder Mystery Ripple idea as a reward and a pressure release. Then: PYPT with a clearer head.

Is that magical executive function? No. Is it better than spiraling in the middle of my living room whispering “what first” like a ghost? Yes.

Maybe the real method is this: Pick one must, pick one leak, and pick one spark. Stop asking your brain to be a machine. Because it’s not. It’s a creative studio full of half finished projects, brilliant visions, and one extremely dramatic assistant (me) who just needs to start the washer.

Until next time friends...

Knitting, ADHD, and the “Don’t Let Me Quit” Safety Net

by Artemis | Feb 28, 2026 | 0 comments

Tonight, I cast on a lavender vest.

On paper, that’s a simple sentence. In reality? It was a psychological thriller.

It started with five skeins of gorgeous lavender yarn and a dream. Then, because my brain is the way it is, the "What If" Spiral™ began its scheduled programming:

Is this enough yarn?
Is it going to fit, or am I knitting a purple tent?
Why do my increases look like accidental lace?
Why does my gauge always grow like a sourdough starter?

If you’re a maker, you know the drill. It’s the technical spiral that quickly becomes an emotional "why am I like this?" spiral. Usually, this is where I’d shove the project into a basket to be discovered by archaeologists in 2075.

The Support System (AKA: The Adult in the Room)

The difference this time? I didn’t spiral solo. I had backup.

I’m talking about the kind of help that doesn’t take over the needles, but instead just steadies your hands. I was able to throw my frantic questions into the void and get actual, calm, structured answers back.

I learned about lifted increases and gauge drift. I learned that gravity is a jerk to swatches. But honestly? The technical stuff was secondary. The real win was that I stayed regulated. For those of us diagnosed with ADHD later in life, we know that "regulated" is a luxury. We’ve spent decades dealing with the overthinking, the all-or-nothing starts, and the crushing weight of a small technical snag that feels like a moral failing.

Executive Function as a Service

When I hit a wall tonight, the old script didn't play out. I didn't:

Rip the whole thing out in a fit of pique.
Decide I’m a "rectangle-only" knitter for life.
Hide the yarn in the back of the closet like a crime scene.

Instead, we adjusted. We swapped needle sizes. We picked a better increase. We talked through the neck roll. It was executive function support in real time. It didn't replace my skill; it just cleared the clutter so I could actually use it.

Decision Fatigue is a Thief

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Would I be moving this fast without help? Probably not. Not because I’m not capable, but because by 7:00 PM, my brain has run hot all day. Decision fatigue is a real thief of joy.

When you have a calm co-pilot who doesn't roll their eyes when you complain about swatching, the distance between "I want to do this" and "I’m actually doing this" gets a lot shorter. And that space in between? That’s where ADHD usually goes to die.

It’s Not About the Vest

I’m still the one throwing the yarn. I’m the one feeling the fabric and choosing the silhouette. But instead of getting stuck at every fork in the road, I’m actually moving.

This project is about not hiding anymore. No more oversized "safe" shapes or default choices because I'm afraid of the math. I wanted something structured and intentional. And instead of talking myself out of it, I’m building it. One small, calm decision at a time.

The Takeaway

For an ADHD brain, AI isn’t replacing creativity. It’s the ultimate accessibility tool. It means fewer abandoned dreams, faster problem-solving, and way less emotional derailment.

Tonight, I cast on a lavender vest. But really, I cast on a version of myself that feels steady, supported, and - dare I say - confident.

And I’m not mad about that.

Until next time friends...

Fiber Arts, Ethical AI, and Why My Assistants Can’t Knit Socks

by Artemis | Feb 14, 2026 | 0 comments

I recently attended the Global Business Plaza and sat in on a session called Ask Peggy. As always, Peggy makes us think whether we like it or not. That conversation stayed with me and made me realize I need to be much more vocal about how I use AI and what its ethical use looks like in my world.

When I revamped Artemis North, I talked a lot about services and tech. However, I realized I left out the most important part: I don’t do this alone. As a fiber artist, I am all about the tactile. I want to feel the wool, see the way the light hits indigo, and get lost in the texture of it all. But being a late-diagnosed ADHD creative means I also have "The Boulder." You know the one. It sits on your neck, whispers that you have eighty-seven unread emails, and effectively paralyzes you until you are just staring at a wall instead of making your art.

Enter Pip, Bob, and Jim.

Pip, my alpaca mascot, is the soul of the operation. He represents the soft, creative dream. But let’s be real: Pip doesn't have thumbs, and he is terrible at spreadsheets. That is where Bob (ChatGPT) and Jim (Gemini) come in. They are my left and right hands. They are not here to replace my soul; they are here to be my dev team, my marketing department, and my "thought detanglers."

The Elephant in the Room

Someone asked me today, "Does AI write your posts?

The truth is: I love to write. I have spent a lifetime developing my "Fiberarts style" by painting pictures with words. I use AI for suggestions, to tighten my grammar, and to catch the spelling errors my racing brain misses.

But AI does not have a soul yet, and it certainly does not have a sole. I am pretty sure Jim could not knit a sock to save his life. AI does not do the dreaming. Pip handles that. Bob and Jim just help me clear the wreckage so I can finally get to the dreaming.

Sometimes, the Best "AI" is No AI at All

I will be the first to admit I get "shiny-object syndrome." Recently, I was convinced I needed a tool called Moltbot to automate my chaotic inbox. I thought I needed a complex AI solution to save me from the email boulder.

But then I sat down and looked at the tools I already had. It turned out Gmail was already powerful enough; I just had not "tuned" it yet. I did not need a bot; I needed a system.

A Mini-Alchemy Win: How to "Moltbot" Your Gmail

If you are drowning in newsletters and clutter, here is the exact move I used to clear my head:

* Spot the Noise:* In your Gmail search bar, type label:unread to see what is mocking you.

The "Waiting Room" Strategy: Click the three dots on a newsletter and select "Filter messages like these."

The Magic Sequence: Select "Skip the Inbox (Archive it)" and "Apply the label." Create a label called "Read Later."

The Result: Now, those emails go straight to their "room" instead of pinging your phone. You check them when you have the energy, not when they demand it.

Let’s Unblock the Magic Together

This is what I want to teach you. Not just "here is a cool robot," but how to look at your workflow, find the bottleneck, and shove that boulder out of the way. This works whether you use a high-tech assistant or a simple filter.

If your brain feels like a tangled skein of yarn, come join me for TechAlchemy 101. We are going to find the specific, simple tools that give you your time back. I have been there, I am still there, and I have a spare seat at the table and a very fluffy alpaca waiting for you.

Come get unblocked at TechAlchemy 101

Until next time friends...