What unlearning old creative beliefs taught me about helping others rebuild their practice
For a long time, I carried a map of what it meant to be an artist. The map was inherited, self-constructed, shaped by culture and school and mentors and my own internal drive. It was full of clear directions. Be productive. Be visible. Be consistent. Be serious. Push through. Stay focused. I followed that map with everything I had.
Then life changed. My health shifted. My nervous system could no longer sustain the pace I had come to believe was essential. The creative structure I had once relied on began to feel like scaffolding I could no longer stand inside. Slowly, and not without grief, I realized I had to draw a new map.
These are ten beliefs I used to hold as an artist—each one now softened, reframed, or released. And through the process of letting go, I found not only a new way of working, but a desire to help others through that same kind of redefinition. The framework I use now with clients came directly from navigating this terrain myself.
1. I thought being an artist meant creating every day
There was a time when I believed that showing up daily was the cornerstone of creative legitimacy. I kept notebooks full of word counts and streaks. Even when I was tired or disconnected, I pushed myself to do something. At first, that structure gave me confidence. Eventually, it gave me burnout.
When chronic symptoms disrupted my routine, I felt like I was losing part of myself. I had to learn that creativity is not always loud or linear. Sometimes it is quiet and cyclical. Sometimes it lives in thinking, or noticing, or resting. I do not create every day anymore. But I still consider myself fully engaged.
This shift made me think differently about the “process” category of my framework. So many people come to me struggling with what used to work but no longer does. Together, we redefine what consistency actually looks like when your body or life changes.
2. I thought slower work was less valuable
Speed was once my favorite validation. I loved being fast. I loved finishing things quickly. I believed that momentum was a sign of mastery. But when my energy became unpredictable, I could no longer rush. I had to slow down, not as a choice, but as a condition of survival.
At first, I felt shame. Then I started to notice something else. The slower I moved, the more depth the work contained. I gave things time to breathe, and they became richer. What I once dismissed as delay was actually refinement.
I now help clients understand the difference between speed and meaning. In the productivity section of my framework, we explore what creative effort looks like when you stop measuring it by pace.
3. I thought productivity equaled worth
I based my sense of value on output. The more I produced, the more I believed I mattered as an artist. My notebooks, my blog posts, my drafts—all of it fed a quiet fear that if I stopped creating, I would stop existing in the eyes of others.
That belief collapsed when my body began saying no. I was exhausted. I could no longer make in the same volume. I worried that I had disappeared. But something else emerged. Presence. Intention. Instead of trying to produce endlessly, I began choosing what truly mattered. My identity as an artist no longer hinged on quantity.
When I work with others now, this is often the place where the grief sits. Letting go of externalized productivity as identity is not easy. But it makes space for a more humane and sustainable practice.
4. I thought discipline was always the answer
I have always been a planner. I believed that if I could create the right system, I could write or make through anything. When I struggled, I doubled down on structure. But discipline is not a universal solution. Sometimes it becomes a form of control. Sometimes it hides fear.
Eventually, I realized that I was using discipline to avoid feeling vulnerable. I was pushing when I needed to soften. What I needed was trust, not force. I needed to believe that the work would come when I was ready, and that it did not need to be extracted.
This distinction between rigidity and devotion comes up often in session. In the process and sustainability sections of the framework, we look at how structure can support rather than dominate the creative life.
5. I thought rest had to be earned
For a long time, I did not let myself rest unless I had finished something. Rest was the reward. If I had not done enough, I did not deserve to pause. That mindset led directly to physical collapse.
Rest is not a reward. It is part of the creative ecosystem. Without rest, the nervous system cannot return to regulation. Without regulation, creation is a threat rather than a refuge.
This realization changed my understanding of the entire creative cycle. I now speak openly with clients about rest as a foundation for sustainability. Your body does not need to justify its needs. You do not have to prove your way into rest.
6. I thought I had to specialize
For years, I believed I needed to choose one thing and commit to it completely. I saw multidisciplinary creativity as scattered. But I am not a single-medium artist. I write, I stitch, I collage, I facilitate, I reflect. And all of it feeds the rest.
My creative identity did not fracture when I expanded. It became whole. The modality section of my framework reflects this deeply. When clients feel stuck, we explore what form wants to emerge, even if it is unfamiliar.
Sometimes a shift in material is what brings someone back to themselves.
7. I thought sharing was part of the work
I used to believe that art was not complete until it had been seen. I pushed myself to publish everything, post everything, put everything into the world. But not all work is meant for an audience. Some things are private. Some things are sacred.
Now I keep more to myself. I create for the act of making, not the reaction it might generate. This shift has been profoundly freeing. Visibility is no longer a requirement. It is a choice.
Many of my clients are healing from the expectation that art must be performative. We unpack that belief and find other ways to feel connected.
8. I thought clarity came first
I wanted to understand what the work was about before I began. I waited for a clear thesis, a defined purpose. But I no longer begin with knowing. I begin with curiosity. I follow the material.
Most meaningful work reveals itself in process, not before. Learning to create without control has made my work more honest. In the content and identity sections of my framework, I help people stay present with uncertainty.
Sometimes the work is not about knowing. It is about asking.
9. I thought I had to stay the same
I resisted change. I believed that if I shifted too much, I would lose the core of who I was. But that resistance was a form of fear. I was trying to preserve a self that no longer fit.
Creative identity is not a brand. It is a living, evolving experience. I no longer cling to consistency. I allow for contradiction. I allow for change.
This belief is central to my client work. When people feel like they no longer recognize themselves in their work, we use this as a beginning, not an ending.
10. I thought art had to be separate from healing
I kept my therapeutic work in one room and my creative work in another. I worried that if I merged them, I would lose the integrity of both. But that separation was artificial.
My most meaningful work has always come from the places I needed to heal. And helping others reconnect with their creative self through psychological insight and gentle conversation has become the most integrated form of my artistry.
This is why I offer the sessions I do now. My six-part framework is not just a coaching tool. It is a reflection of everything I had to unlearn and rebuild in my own practice. It is how I hold space for artists who are finding their way back to themselves.
Your creative life can change. And it can still be yours.
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