Born as a creative

For most of my life, the idea of being "creative" as a type of person felt foreign to me. I grew up thinking of creativity in compartmentalized terms: a "good drawer," "good singer," or "good dancer." It wasn’t an all-encompassing trait or a community I felt part of. But now, I see creativity as a profoundly inclusive concept—a shared identity for those who feel the urge to make and share things with the world. And I’ve come to love this idea.

As a child, I loved to draw. My hands couldn’t resist the temptation of blank spaces. Walls, furniture, homework booklets—everything became a canvas. I vividly remember getting into trouble for my doodles: coloring our white furniture with a neighbor's crayons, drawing on test papers, or forgetting that I was doing homework when I fell into a doodle rabbit hole. To my parents and teachers, these weren’t signs of creative talent but nuisances, and developmental quirks to be managed so I could focus on "real learning."

Back then, creativity wasn’t celebrated; it was tolerated at best. I was taught to set aside my "itchy hands" and focus on practical, measurable achievements. Over time, I did just that. By the time I earned my degree, found a job, and became a parent, my creative practices had all but vanished. Life became a series of responsibilities—bills, deadlines, parenting—and I convinced myself that drawing and painting were childish pursuits.

Yet, creativity lingered in my dreams. Vivid splashes of color would play before my sleeping eyes, sparking a joy I had forgotten. My daughter inherited my "itchy hands," and she too doodled relentlessly. We went through paper as quickly as we went through bread. During the pandemic, I enrolled her in art classes to channel her energy, but she couldn’t sit still long enough to follow instructions. I felt frustration building in me, not because of her restlessness, but because I envied her freedom to create. Deep down, I realized I missed that freedom for myself.

This realization hit me hardest during one of the most challenging times of my life: my divorce. In the midst of legal battles and emotional upheaval, I turned to painting as a way to cope. At first, I painted to release stress, and to process my anger and pain. But it didn’t take long for me to recognize something deeper: I didn’t just want to paint—I needed to. Each brushstroke brought me closer to a version of myself I thought I had lost. For the first time in years, I felt alive.

Painting became more than a hobby; it was a lifeline. It forced me to confront the truth I’d been avoiding for decades: I am a creative person. This realization was both liberating and terrifying. I wrestled with doubts about the practicality of pursuing art. Could I afford to follow this path? Was it selfish to prioritize creativity over stability? Would society see me as "less than" for choosing a nontraditional life?

The internet is filled with jokes about the “curse” of being an artist. It’s funny because it’s true. Creativity can feel like a burden, a relentless drive that demands attention even when it’s inconvenient. But for me, it’s also a gift—a way to reconnect with my authentic self and, more importantly, with my daughter.

As I navigate this journey, I’ve realized that my creativity isn’t something I outgrew; it’s something I suppressed. And if that’s true for me, it’s likely true for my daughter as well. Her love for drawing, storytelling, and creating isn’t a phase; it’s a fundamental part of who she is. I want to nurture that part of her, to show her that creativity isn’t something to grow out of but to grow into.

This journey of rediscovery isn’t just about me. It’s about breaking the cycle of self-denial and embracing the messy, beautiful truth of being a creative person. It’s about showing my daughter—and myself—that it’s okay to be who we are. Together, we’re learning to honor our creative impulses, to live authentically, and to find peace in the process.

For anyone reading this who has ever felt the itch of creativity, who has ever suppressed their desire to make something out of fear or practicality: I wonder what path have you chosen? Will I find you out there trying to blaze your own trial? Will we see each other on a sunny day at a beautiful destination?