Being an Artist: The Courage to Create

In a previous Being an Artist article here at Awakened Magazine, I talked about the human superpower of creativity—the ability to bring things into existence that weren’t there before. And just like that, a burly man from Krypton, our superpowers often come with a weakness—a kind of kryptonite. Let me explain.

When I graduated from college, my diploma proudly stated: Fine Art and Graphic Design. That was no accident. Ever since I was a child, I knew I would be a painter. A fine art painter. Somehow, I imagined myself showing work in galleries and exhibitions—none of which I had ever visited, let alone participated in, up until graduation. Still, I knew that was my place. That was my destiny.

I had no clue how to make it happen. But as the youngest of five kids—and the first to go to college—I figured I’d find a way. That’s what college was for, right?

Three months after graduating, I landed a job as a graphic designer. My career took off in a unique, exciting direction. I freelanced for a while, then moved into everything from fashion to early web design to brand work for comic books, streetwear, and the action sports world. As a young man in my 20s, this was all incredibly exciting and convenient.

And still—throughout those first nine years—people would regularly ask me:
“Hey, how’s the painting coming?”

They weren’t being nosy. These were people who knew me at a deeper level. They remembered that I had once declared, with conviction, that painting was my destiny. Their questions weren’t random. What was random was the variety of answers I gave:

“Oh, they’re coming along great.”
“Yeah, I’m really developing a few new pieces right now.”
“I should show you sometime—it’s all finally coming together.”

The truth? I wasn’t painting at all.

In fact, the $2,400 oil paint set I had bought with my first graphic design paycheck—along with a $200 brush—was collecting dust in the back of a closet.

The truth was, I was terrified. I was scared to do it “wrong.” Afraid that the moment I touched brush to canvas, I’d shatter the illusion I had of myself as an artist. That I’d reveal myself as a fraud. That I’d kill my own dream by attempting it.

So, for nine years, I lied. I lied to friends, colleagues, and even to myself.

It wasn’t until 2001—when I met my wife—that I picked up a brush again. We were long-distance at the time: she lived on the East Coast, and I was in California. One night, during one of our long phone conversations, something in me stirred. I grabbed some colored inks I had lying around and began to paint as we talked.

After we hung up, I looked at what I’d created and thought, “Well, that didn’t hurt so bad.”

With her gentle (and at times insistent) encouragement—and my willingness to surrender to the unexpected ways the universe was unfolding—I dug out that $2,400 paint set and that expensive brush. And I donated them to Goodwill. No ceremony. No second thought. Then I drove straight to a local paint store and asked if they had any mis-tinted or clearance paints. They sold me three quarts of mismatched colors. I took them home and started pouring, throwing, and smearing paint around.

My fear of control… of judgment… of rejection—started to dissolve.

Within a year, I was showing work at local galleries in Southern California. Within three years, I was exhibiting nationwide. I developed the style for which I became known: an energetic blend of expressionism and impressionism—loose, raw, and unafraid.

During those first few years of painting professionally, I noticed something deep within me shifting: my relationship with fear was changing. I went from paralyzed to empowered, from overthinking to moving with instinct. I found the courage to express things I didn’t yet have language for. To let my human spirit play.

As Sir Ken Robinson once said:

“If you’re not prepared to be wrong, you’ll never come up with anything original.”

Western society teaches us to fear the unknown. We’re told—directly and indirectly—that what we don’t understand is dangerous. That the risk of failure is worse than the regret of never trying. It’s a heavy spell to undo.

But creativity is the antidote. It’s humanity’s birthright. It’s the force that brings the unseen into reality.

Pair that creative force with an untamed ego—one that’s always whispering about how we’ll be judged, mocked, or rejected—and you’ve got a deeply complex dance. One in which the heart knows it has something to offer… and the mind builds walls to protect us from offering it.

Does it take courage to be creative? Maybe.

For me, it takes something even simpler: presence. It takes a return to what matters most to what I’ve always known, deep down. My art may have chosen me, but even if it hadn’t, I’m a human being. And that means I was born with a superpower. Creativity.

To be afraid in the face of that creativity, or of the unknown, is entirely human. Some cultures teach us to embrace that fear. Others teach us to bury it. Either way, the invitation is always the same:

Go inward. Start the conversation. Not with the rational mind that lists every reason you’ll fail. But with the part of you that dreams out loud. The part that doesn’t ask for permission. The part that’s waiting to be created.

Brené Brown reminds us:

“There is no innovation and creativity without failure. Period.”

That truth still makes me flinch sometimes. Because embedded in the act of creating is the risk of falling short—of exposing yourself. But the more I create, the more I see that failure isn’t the opposite of creativity—it’s the price of admission. Every brushstroke, every false start, every scrapped idea is a declaration that I’m still in the arena. Still daring.

When the Culture Works Against You

It’s one thing to wrestle with our own inner critics, but another to navigate a culture that often minimizes or pathologizes the creative impulse. Western society, in particular, tends to equate productivity with value. We’re praised for being efficient, optimized, and scalable—words that belong more to machines than to humans.

In that environment, creativity can seem frivolous. Impractical. Self-indulgent. Especially if it doesn’t immediately generate income or social status.

Many of us grew up in systems—such as family, school, and religion—that didn’t nurture our creativity. Not intentionally. But through constant messages like: “Art is a hobby, not a career,” or “Don’t waste time on things that don’t pay the bills.” Even well-meaning advice like “have a backup plan” can quietly shut the door on our creative potential.

These cultural cues seep in deep. We internalize them. We begin to believe that our artistic instincts are irresponsible. That our passions must be justified through success or sacrificed entirely.

This is especially true for marginalized voices—people of color, women, queer and trans folks, and anyone who doesn’t see themselves represented in the mainstream art world. The cultural script often says: “Your story doesn’t matter here.”

And yet, that’s exactly why it does matter. Creativity isn’t just personal—it’s political. Choosing to make art in a world that tells you not to is an act of resistance. Of self-worth. Of visibility.

We need courage to push against these systemic narratives. To remember that creativity is not a luxury; it’s a language of the soul. A birthright.

In her book Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert speaks to this beautifully:

“Creative living is any life that is driven more strongly by curiosity than by fear.”

That line hit me like a ton of bricks. Because for so long, I had been driven not just by fear, but by fear disguised as logic. Practicality. Maturity. Real-world responsibility. But underneath that mask was the trembling voice of a young artist, unsure if he was worthy of making anything at all.

Because at the end of the day, what we create is not just art. It’s evidence of courage.

If You’re Feeling Blocked…

If you’ve read this far and feel the urge to return to your creative practice—but don’t know how to start—here’s a little list that might help you ease into it.

1. Lower the stakes. You don’t have to write a novel today. Just write a sentence. Don’t aim for a masterpiece. Aim for a mark on a page.
2. Make a date with your creativity. Ten minutes. No distractions. Light a candle. Put on music. Open a notebook, pull out a pen. See what happens.
3. Use your body. If you’re blocked mentally, move your body. Dance, walk, cook, dig in the dirt. Creativity often returns through motion, not thought.
4. Interrupt the perfectionist. If you find yourself over-editing before you start, pause and ask, “What if it didn’t have to be perfect?” Then keep going anyway.
5. Connect with your younger self. Remember who you were before you knew (or were indoctrinated) on how the world worked. What did you dream of then? What made time disappear?
6. Find your people. Whether it’s a community group, a trusted friend, or an online circle—share your art even when it feels unfinished. Especially then.
7. Make it sacred. Not serious—sacred. Set a space that honors the process. Light some incense. Whisper a prayer. Paint with your hands.

Above all, be kind to yourself. Creative courage isn’t about being fearless. It’s about showing up with the fear and making space for your creativity anyway.

Because every time you choose to create, you are choosing to believe—again—that what lives inside you is worthy of being seen.

And that is the bravest thing you can do.

TAKE ACTION: If you’re interested in mentoring or creative coaching, feel free to contact Gene. He works with individuals looking to jumpstart, restart, and reignite their natural creative abilities, making it a permanent part of their lives, regardless of fear.