It’s the practice of making something before you know whether it will be acceptable, useful, profitable, or understood. We sit down and write the shitty first draft. We start making marks on paper even though “we’re not good at it.” We show up to a comedy improv class even though our Inner Art Jerk (my friend Lelia named hers “Garth”) has already written tomorrow’s scathing yelp review of our performance.

Man, I hate that guy.

If you imagine that courageous creatives are having visions, you should know that mostly we are squinting. We are basically raccoons with glue sticks. Playful, opportunistic, persistent, and absolutely shameless about rummaging through garbage. Someday we’ll do something with all this really good cardboard we’re hoarding curating, but today is not that day.

As a creative coach, I delight in helping others find the courage and self-permission to explore their creativity.

But taking creative risks does not require courage for me.

What does requires courage is consistently showing up for my creative community, such as finishing and posting a substack article on creative courage. I have a complicated relationship with visibility. As a highly sensitive, multi-passionate person, many days I just want to hide. I want to sit in front of the tv, watching “Taskmaster” while cutting out tiny images of vintage toilets, because my current deep interest involves a crazy idea to make a series of tiny collaged bathroom art, an enterprise that will almost certainly result in an equally tiny net profit.

I blame my friend Melissa for this “inspiration.”

Unlike Melissa, inspiration is a little bitch. She has the reliability of Comcast and the attention span of a hangry toddler at Chuck E. Cheese. She just spent 20 minutes looking for the scissors she’s holding in her hand. She just glued a feather to a receipt and called it mixed media.

She only sticks around for the first of the six stages of any creative endeavor:

1. This is fun!

2. I am a fraud.

3. Perhaps I should become an accountant.

4. Maybe it’s not terrible.

5. Oh. I actually like it.

6. Repeat forever.

Every month, a group of women gathers in my art space. Sometimes we draw. Sometimes we do comedy improv. Sometimes we paint. Always, we laugh. But it’s not really a class; it’s more of a collaboratory. A place where people explore creative skills that transfer into the rest of life, without taking any of it too seriously.

Our premise: You don’t have to be creative. You simply have to be brave enough to begin. Those are two very different invitations.

We recently voted to name our workshops The Creative Courage Club. Our official motto: “Huh. That’s interesting.” Our whole practice revolves around reframing perceived mistakes as opportunities for fresh perspectives, learning to delight in surprise and embodying affective and cognitive flexibility. September’s workshop centers around drawing mini-mandalas. I chose this modality because ruler, compass, and drafting stencils give people a sense of safety from which to experiment.

So far, no one has signed up.

Huh. That’s interesting.

Also, hilarious.

Most things are, I find – an outlook that can amount to something of a social liability. Hey, I don’t make the rules. I just cut them up into pieces and glue them to tiny canvases.

So what have we learned? We are basically raccoons with better art supplies.

And remember, when it comes to having a creative practice that nourishes us, courage gobbles up talent for breakfast — much like a raccoon who just found an old pizza crust in the trash.

I will if you will.

A normal person, so I understand, packs for where they are going. They might begin with a check list featuring sun screen, a toothbrush, and the requisite amount of underwear.

Isn’t that quaint?

For the highly sensitive, multi-passionate creative, vacation can feel more like an involuntary artist’s residency combined with an existential performance review. Sensory overload, disruption of normal routines, loss of deep-focus creative pursuits, and a lack of solitude in which to recover can be a recipe for dysregulated mayhem – and not of the merry muppet variety.

No, people like me have to pack for who we might become when we get there. Isn’t this fun? Welcome to the Annual Olympics of Decision Fatigue.

Let’s explore some basic must-haves, in no particular order.

One notebook: Not because I’ll definitely write in it, but because inspiration is a shy woodland creature that appears only when I’ve neglected to pack paper.

Three pens: one will disappear. One will explode in my backpack. One will become my new favorite for reasons that defy science, whereupon it will promptly run dry.

Sand Castles Made Simple by Lucinda Weiringa: purchased to help me find purpose, meaning, and creativity at the beach. It’s an excellent book. I read the whole thing before remembering that I hate sand.

Four books: A kindle. I will read one book, half of another, and purchase three more at a used bookstore while I’m away, one of which will likely be cut up and sacrificed to the gods of mixed media art.

Scissors: obviously.

Advil: because cutting tiny things out of books gets my pinched nerve as jacked up as twitter/X on literally any Tuesday.

Drawing travel set: I will use it exactly once. The resulting drawing will be terrible. It will also remind me why I love making art.

Folding chair: For staring into the middle distance while contemplating whether I should completely redesign my business, write another novel, convince my wife to buy a tiny house in Oregon, or become a shepherd.

Noise dampening ear plugs: because the restaurant seems charming on the website, but its acoustic design may well consist of exposed brick and optimism.

Protein bars: because the acoustics at said restaurant will only make the low-blood sugar bear hangrier.

Comfortable shoes: For following interesting side streets that were absolutely not on today’s itinerary, and hopefully, getting lost in the right direction.

Two swimsuits: Because highly sensitive people experience the five stages of grief every time they put a damp one back on.

A random ball of yarn: I might want to weave with sticks. It’s best to be prepared.

Tiny canvases and acrylic markers: for painting by the fire pit, in preparation for my Tiny Art Campaign, in preparation for my Tiny Art Empire, in preparation for my WORLD TAKE OVER! (Do you see the kind of brain I have to work with here?)

A vat of good, old-fashioned, organically grown DEET: Because the sensory ick of being covered in chemical goo is still preferable to my Michelin-starred status as a tasting menu for mosquitoes.

Anti-itch cream: for when my overactive immune system treats every undeterred bug bite like a broadway production.

Anti-histamines: in case my over-achieving immune system develops an allergy to the anti-itch cream. Or air.

A floppy hat: useful for hiding from the unrelenting gaze of the sun and other people.

So what have we learned? For highly sensitive, multi-passionate creatives, identity crises travel surprisingly well, especially after the second cappuccino.

And remember, for more practical guidance on people like us, refer to Robert Bly’s poem, “People Like Us.”

I will if you will.

“Oh,” I said. “I think it has everything to do with creativity.”

We so often revert to a cultural ethos of creativity as something you do: painting, writing, playing music, making pottery. And that concept isn’t wrong, but I do think it’s incomplete. Creativity is so much bigger than a skill or a product. I’m beginning to understand that creativity is how we shape a life.

For years, I’ve taught intuitive art workshops. People often come expecting to learn acrylic painting, or neurographic drawing, or mandala making. And yes—we make things. We leave with paintings and drawings and colorful hands. But somewhere along the way, something more interesting begins to happen.

People soften. They laugh. They take risks. They stop apologizing. They start standing up to their Inner Art Jerk. They remember what curiosity feels like. The artwork on the table is almost beside the point; the real masterpiece is the person quietly changing in the chair.

I work with a lot of highly sensitive and multi-passionate women. Women who feel deeply, who notice everything. Who are moved by music, overwhelmed by fluorescent lights, brought to tears by kindness, and exhausted by constant noise. For years, many of us have been called out simultaneously for our “too muchery” and “not enoughery.”

Too emotional. Too quiet. Too intense. Too sensitive. Not focused enough, or extraverted enough, or tough enough, or “fun” enough. So we spend enormous amounts of energy trying to become less ourselves.

What if creativity invites us to do the opposite?

What if “successful” creativity isn’t necessarily about becoming more productive, but becoming more honest? What if it’s about changing the question from, “What’s wrong with me?” to “What’s true for me?”

I am currently working on a novel that wants to kill me. Beloved friend and writing mentor Barb Shoup recently sent me this Neil Renic quote: “Writing a book is like reading a book, except that the book hates you.” I laughed out loud. What kind of normal person puts themselves through this? I have often wondered. The answer, most likely, is that few normal people would.

But in my experience, making art teaches us things that are surprisingly difficult to learn any other way. You can’t bully a painting into becoming beautiful. You can’t wrangle the Wild North American Novel into submission; you have to speak to it in soothing tones and not make any sudden moves. Because you can’t rush trust. You can’t control inspiration. You can’t always think your way forward.

Sometimes you have to pause. Notice, respond, and listen. Sometimes the next brushstroke only appears after you’ve been willing to sit with uncertainty. That turns out to be pretty good training for living.

Of course, books and paintings can change our lives because they’re beautiful. But the process of creating them can also change our lives because they teach us how to become people who can tolerate uncertainty, welcome curiosity, and stay present when something looks awkward before it becomes whole.

Every artist knows there’s a moment when the painting looks terrible. The colors vie for relevance. The composition starts to resemble the kitchen junk drawer. The novel characters unionize and refuse to follow the outline.

You contemplate the folly of the life choices that led you here. I’ve started to think that’s true of becoming a person, too. Maybe we’re all just walking around in our awkward middle stages, convinced the story has already ended, when it’s only the end of the First Act.

Act One: we make the art.

Act Two: we use the art – to heal, process grief, reduce stress, reconnect with intuition, and generally soothe our deep-soul temper tantrums.

Act Three: we become the art. Not in the sense of perfection or mastery, but in the sense of becoming intentional. Evolving into someone whose life reflects what matters most. Whose home, friendships, conversations, mornings, bookshelves, playlists, boundaries, and work all begin to express something authentic.

Not to create an aesthetically perfect curation of what we love, but because what we love is deeply, unmistakably ours.

Highly sensitive people understand this almost instinctively. Many experience the world not as a checklist of obligations but as an unfolding landscape of light, texture, beauty, emotion, sound, and meaning.

We are already composing an experience of life. The question is whether we’re doing it consciously. Perhaps honoring our sensitivity isn’t separate from creativity. Maybe it is creativity.

I’ve begun to wonder if our lives are our longest creative projects. The painting, like the meditation cushion, is simply one place we practice. The journal is one place we practice.

The difficult conversation. The boundary. The decision to rest instead of push. The courage to say, “This matters to me.” And the courage to say, “This doesn’t.” These are creative acts, too. They shape the life we’re making.

So what have we learned? We’ve already been creating. We’ve been composing a life. Maybe that’s what art has been trying to teach us all along. Not simply how to make beautiful things. But how to become more fully ourselves.

And remember: the painting was never the actual masterpiece. We are.

I will if you will.

But I’ve learned something over years of painting: this ugly middle is often where the good stuff lives. Which got me wondering: Why paint at all? Why willingly spend hours making something that might become beautiful—or dazzlingly craptacular?

Here are eight reasons I keep showing up anyway.

1. Art Helps Heal Your Nervous System

The science is increasingly clear: making art isn’t a luxury. It’s a biological necessity.

Susan Magsamen and Ivy Ross, authors of Your Brain on Art, describe how artistic experiences affect the brain, body, and behavior. Research in neuroaesthetics suggests that creative engagement can reduce stress hormones, calm the nervous system, and help shift us into a more restorative state. Even brief periods of artistic activity can have measurable effects on wellbeing.

When I’m painting, I often notice my shoulders drop before I notice my thoughts slow down. And then, I become immersed in a state of flow during which hours pass, until I hear my wife’s car in the driveway and realize I haven’t even started making dinner.

The canvas becomes a place where my nervous system remembers how to exhale.

2. Art Keeps Your Brain Flexible

Every painting is an experiment. What happens if I try this color? What if I cover up this entire section? Oh, THAT’S what happens when you try to layer acrylic paint over oil pastel. What if the “mistake” is actually the beginning? Art asks us to tolerate uncertainty and make decisions without guarantees. That’s neuroplasticity in action: forming new pathways instead of repeating old ones. In a world that rewards the myth of certainty, art keeps us adaptable. Cognitively agile. It’s the ultimate Oil of Olay for your brain!

3. Art Creates Meaning

Stress reduction is wonderful, and God knows we need it these days. But art offers something more than symptom management: it invites curiosity. It helps us ask questions we can’t answer with logic alone. And when it comes to living a creative life, logic can be woefully overrated.

A painting doesn’t solve life’s mysteries; it gives us a way to make room for them, to sit beside them. Some days I paint because I’m trying to understand something, others because I know I never will; both are worthwhile.

4. Art Gives Feelings Somewhere to Go

Highly Sensitive and multi-passionate people often experience life intensely. We notice subtleties. We absorb atmospheres. We carry stories, emotions, and impressions that don’t always fit neatly into words. Art gives all that energy somewhere to land.

Sometimes I begin a painting thinking I’m working with color and composition. Halfway through, I realize I’ve been processing grief, longing, joy, frustration, or hope. The painting knew before I did.

5. Art Adds Beauty to the World

Not every painting becomes a masterpiece, thank goodness. The goal isn’t perfection. As David Bayles and Ted Orlan said in their classic book, Art and Fear: “To require perfection is to invite paralysis…you cling ever more tightly to what you already know you can do, away from risk and exploration, and possibly further from the work of your heart.”

The goal is participation.

Creating beauty is an act of faith. We place a mark on a blank surface and trust that something meaningful may emerge. And if it doesn’t? There’s always another canvas. Thankfully, beauty is a renewable resource.

6. Art Connects Us to Something Larger

Many artists describe creative work as collaboration rather than control. Hilma af Klint, the actual first abstract expressionist who predated the male and therefore more celebrated artists Kandinsky and Mondrian, spoke of receiving images rather than inventing them. Contemporary painter and creative guide Flora Bowley often encourages artists to listen to the painting rather than force it. Whether you call it intuition, spirit, imagination, the unconscious, divine inspiration, or the effluvia from the Great Cosmic Sneeze of the Universe, creative practice reminds us that not everything needs to be figured out before it can be trusted. Sometimes the next step appears only after we take it.

7. Art Is Play

Many adults are threatened by the idea of play, a “cringe” concept that somehow gets filed in the same mental folder as “mandatory fun.” I’m trying to cut back, thanks. But play matters more than most adults realize.

Science of play researcher Dr. Stuart Brown famously wrote, “The opposite of play is not work. The opposite of play is depression.”

Art gives us permission to explore without needing a productive outcome. To experiment, make messes, and follow delight. It is the perfect collaboratory in which to practice giving ourselves permission to be who we really are.

Ironically, some of our most meaningful breakthroughs happen precisely when we’re not trying so hard to be productive.

8. Art Builds Courage

Every painting asks the same question: Can you keep going when you don’t know how this will turn out? That question has broad applications beyond a stroke of paint.

It’s the same question we face in relationships.
In careers.
In healing.
In creativity.
In becoming ourselves.

Like meditation, art teaches us to stay, to tolerate the awkward middle. To trust the process before there’s evidence. To keep showing up. And that’s why I haven’t (yet) danced around a bonfire fed by those two paintings.

They’re still awkward, still unresolved. They’re still somewhere between disaster and possibility. But then again, so am I. And maybe that’s exactly the point. I’m including photographs here to practice courage and truth-telling. I’m not painting from the mountain top. I’m painting from the muddy trail.

The people I work with are often standing in the “ugly middle” of something—a creative project, a life transition, too many passions to focus on one, a dream that hasn’t fully arrived yet, or that has grown stale. Others have a creative dream, but just don’t know where – or how – to begin.

If you find yourself in any of these places, I’d love to talk.

So what have we learned? Art-making is clinically proven to contain eleventy-leven vitamins and minerals for your brain, body, and soul, even when the going gets rough.

And remember: Sometimes what looks like a mess is actually the beginning of the next becoming, so be brave.

I will if you will.

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First named and researched by Dr. Elaine Aron in 1991, it is not a disorder, but rather a trait found in roughly 15-20% of the population (though it can feel like you are the only unicorn in all the land). Found in over 100 animal species, this trait from Neurospicy Land is a survival strategy wherein one observes before acting. HSP’s notice more subtleties than others, feel and think more deeply, and are more easily overwhelmed by stimuli. They also tend to be creative empaths.

You might be a highly sensitive person if:

You’ve ever left a party because the noise was too bright.

You have been emotionally affected by a cloud formation.

You need a nap after going to Costco, and possibly before.

You have rearranged your entire day because your socks felt wrong.

You can tell someone is upset by the way they closed a cabinet.

You can feel the energy leaking out of you when someone wants to chat about the weather.

You cry at commercials, animal videos, sunsets, or particularly moving sandwiches.

Your netflix history resembles that of an elderly British librarian, since violence, psycho-drama, and the Kardashians leave you with an acute case of The Ick.

You have creative dreams that you consistently place on hold due to overwhelm, fear of visibility, or perfectionism.

The above trait does not prevent you from buying art supplies.

A lot of folks who find their way to my coaching practice are creative HSP’s, looking for relief from feeling alone, stuck, blocked, overwhelmed, “not good enough,” or disconnected. You know what they often think they need? Discipline.

That is almost never what they need. Instead, they often realize that what they are looking for is courage: to tell the truth about who they are, to give themselves permission to create, and to set boundaries around their energy so they can pause and play and ponder.

Ultimately, it takes courage to offer compassion to ourselves and all our parts, even our Inner Art Jerk, who loves to catalogue all the reasons why engaging with our creativity is a waste of time, money and effort – and potentially downright dangerous, what with the Art Police roaming the streets and all.

This is the work I love above all else, even creating my own art. It is a profound privilege to listen deeply, to be the safe container for a fellow creative HSP, to ask awareness-evoking questions, to notice patterns, to affirm the value of creativity and sensitivity, and to offer the mirroring and compassion and co-regulation that people like us sometimes need to get unstuck and empowered.

In addition to coaching, there are many resources available for people like us. Check out hsperson.com, Dr. Aron’s website, for books, articles, and community. Or head over to https://highlysensitiverefuge.com/. Please note, I am not affiliated with either of these organizations – I’m just passionate about helping other creative HSP’s find support.

So what have we learned? Not all heroes wear capes. Some of us wear ear loops, those noise-dampening thingies that can really help take the edge off of noisy environments.

And remember: Being highly sensitive isn’t a flaw. It’s a way of experiencing the world with unusual depth, awareness, creativity, and feeling. The challenge isn’t becoming less sensitive. The challenge is learning how to thrive with the sensitivity you already have.

Dare to unwrap this gift.

I will if you will.

Shocking, I know.

Each and every morning, I rise around 4:00 a.m. to play around in my notebook with my favorite pen, drinking coffee, listening to the birds, and playing with ideas, complaints, questions, and absurd fascinations. I’ve done so for decades. There is something sacred about the early morning time, before The World starts up with its jack-hammery.

I am not suffering from what a friend calls an “attack of virtue;” I do it because it’s fun. I wouldn’t indulge in it if it weren’t full of feel-good (owing to my complicated relationship with discipline).

What even IS contemplation? Is it rumination, brooding, navel gazing? All my life, I’ve been told I think too much, I feel too deeply, and I try too hard. Tell me something I don’t know. I’m a contemplative, even though that word dredges up intimidating connotations of monks and nuns and Christian devotionals.

This makes me very uncomfortable. I mean, have you ever invited Jesus to a dinner party? While his water-to-wine super power comes in very handy, he doesn’t read a room, his BO is profane, and he doesn’t converse so much as monologues. A more preachy, self-righteous being you’ve never met. No offense, Jesus, but you’re cognitively inflexible and socially problematic.

But recently I came across a new-to-me concept of contemplation that resonates. In his Gene Keys framework, Richard Rudd describes it as a playful, relaxed awareness that is alive, relational, curious, and woven into ordinary life.

Rudd frames it as one of the three interrelated pathways to wisdom: concentration, which relies upon a narrowing of focus; meditation – a transcendent emptying of the mind, and contemplation, a wondering wandering anchored in a deepening of awareness.

Delicious.

So THAT’S what I’ve been doing in my silly little chicken scratchings. A hybrid of Julia Cameron’s Morning Pages and wild brainstorming. Dreaming and scheming. Exploring resentments. Mapping out impossible quests. Insights about the characters in the novel I’m currently working on. Reminders to do that thing that I’ve been putting off. Ideas for paintings. A creative playground. A litany of sketchings and kvetchings. Well. Basically, I guess it’s a kind of prayer.

My talented business mentor, Jamie Chapman of Chickbook Creative, has been encouraging me to share more of what lives in my notebook with others. As in, real earthlings. This brings up all the usual clap trap of the committee that lives in my head: There is too much noise in the world already. Who wants to read about my neurospicy, meandering moodles? Wait, I have to polish it! But first, I need to clean the lint out of my belly button. And etc.

And then, of course, there’s this old chestnut: “Artists are people driven by the tension between the desire to communicate, and the desire to hide.” You don’t know me, D. W. Winnicott! (Shakes fist at sky).

Rude.

The google tells me that a contemplative creative is an individual who uses the physical act of making—such as sketching, journaling, knitting, or photography—as a tool for self-awareness, emotional regulation, insight, and being present. Yup. That’s my mission. And in my creativity coaching practice, I help other contemplative creatures walk the creative path, value their work, affirm their worth, and sustain engagement with their deepest selves. I write, I draw, I paint, but this is my favoritest creative endeavor: helping other multi-passionate, highly sensitive women with theirs.

It’s creative soul work with a sense of humor.

I don’t even know what that means.

I just know that it’s what I do.

I blame my notebook.

And Jamie Chapman.

Thanks for reading! If you’re a highly sensitive, multi-passionate woman, it would be my privilege to walk this path with you.

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Welcome to Wednesday in our certified 5-alarm existence, where the vibes are flammable and everyone is aggressively fine. What better time to dive a little deeper into the first statement of Creative Manifesto Number 1 from my previous post?

Our first supposition is that creativity is a continuum and we are all on it. This means that being an artist is only one of a myriad of creative dispositions that humans can have. (Looking at you, people who insist they aren’t creative because they can’t even draw a straight line. Also, I’ve always wondered: what on earth does drawing a straight line have to do with creativity?)

An easy way to explore where you belong on the creative continuum is to take the Creative Type Quiz by Adobe. I am not in any way affiliated with Adobe, but they’ve done a lot of research on creativity and the quiz is free, so it’s a convenient place to start. However you may feel about Adobe as a tech-bro overlord, at least it primarily directs its charitable donations to nonprofits focusing on creativity, digital literacy, social equity, and community improvement.

First, however, a caveat: it’s formatted in forced-choice, binary statements that you self-select as your greater tendency. For those of us who live in Neurospicy Land or an adjacent surburbia, this can be a pet peeve, given that our answer is often, “it depends.” I find it helpful to frame answers in terms of which statement is truer a majority of the time.

What I appreciate about the test, aside from not having to fork over your email address to get your results, is that no one is excluded from the creative continuum. It measures how you create, not how good you are at creating. Rather than being assigned to a fixed category, you’ll instead be sorted into a creative persona representing a summary of your cognitive inclinations: Strategist, Regenerator, Luminary, Catalyst, Gardener, Guide, Alchemist, and Architect.

I find none of these personae objectionable, and no one is left out; you can’t prove that you’re uncreative. (Sorry, people who insist they don’t have a creative bone in their bodies. Also, I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure you don’t want your bones to be creative.) I tested Luminary, and that feels about right, even though I can relate to descriptors from the other types some of the time.

Take the quiz and tell us your results in the comments, and whether or not you feel it’s a fit for you. Tip: you can click “skip” in the lower right corner of your screen to avoid the time-wasting and slightly disturbing animated sequence while the next question loads.

And remember, reclaiming our creativity is the way out of this zombie apocalypse.

I will if you will.

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Has the end of the world got you down?

Are you too frozen in fear and fury to do anything but scroll on your little sadness machine?

Do you feel guilty about pursuing your passions or creativity when greed, dishonesty and cruelty reign?

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With new Creative Manifesto™, you’ll always have a statement of creative values to guide how you choose to spend your precious brain wattage in this burnt-out attention economy.

It’s easy! Just write down a statement of your most hope-provoking creative beliefs and share it in the comments.

But wait. Maybe you’re thinking, that might be fine for some people. But what are you supposed to do if you’re already full of zero-tonin, nopamine, and dumbonium?

I’m so glad you asked. Act today and we’ll send you not one, not two, but THREE Manifestos™, absolutely free! All you have to do is keep reading.

Creative Manifesto 1:

Creativity is a continuum and we are all on it.

Creativity is a way of responding.

Creativity is a relationship we have with ourselves.

Creative Manifesto 2:

Creativity = courage + curiosity x play

Creativity ≠ artistic skill

Creativity > impossibility

Creative Manifesto 3:

We create to regulate.

We make art from the raw materials of our lives.

We resist through creativity.

Try new Creative Manifesto™, and start reclaiming your soul from the thieves of joy today!

I will if you will.