How I struggled with self-doubt, perfectionism, and feeling “not good enough”
In my first post, I talked about choosing motion over paralysis. What I didn’t talk about yet is just how long I’ve been stuck in that paralysis. Ever since I was a kid, being “good” at art is what I thought I wanted. I dreamed of painting, drawing hyper-realistic portraits, or sculpting clay statues. I wanted all of it — but when the opportunity came to choose art classes at school, I never did. I didn’t take them because I didn’t have natural talent for drawing. I wasn’t outgoing enough for drama or choir. I couldn’t keep up with reading music, so I gave up on learning an instrument. I was quick to give up, even on the things I loved and longed to be part of. I constantly compared myself to others and decided it wasn’t worth trying. If I couldn’t be good at it, why start at all?
Instead, I leaned into what I was good at — working hard. I kept myself busy with multiple jobs in the food industry, pouring my energy into productivity while quietly ignoring the creative dreams I had set aside. Even now, as a mother, I still struggle with this. I come up with a million ideas, but after hours of overanalyzing — or days of sleep deprivation spent caring for a sick toddler — I often let them go. Life as a parent makes it easy to put your own creativity on the back burner. Anxiety has been a constant companion for me. It feels like living in a loop: wanting to start something, imagining all the possibilities, beginning a few, never finishing them, feeling frustrated with what I create, giving up, and then dreaming all over again. This vortex of anxiety, longing, and the need for fulfillment kept me spinning for years.
In college, I eventually took a ceramics class and loved it. But once again, harsh self-criticism crept in. Even with a supportive and encouraging professor, my internal critic was louder. I never felt good enough to belong next to the other talented students, so I stopped. After college, the pull to create never left me. I dabbled when I could, but fear and self-doubt often held me back. By my late twenties, I had built what I thought was a dream craft room — shelves filled with supplies and possibilities. But most of the time, I found myself scrolling through Pinterest, dreaming about what I wished I could make. When I did create, I focused on what I thought others wanted from me. That left me feeling empty and unfulfilled. Eventually, those feelings led me to donate my entire craft room to Goodwill — a quiet way of giving up on my dreams.
My idea of creativity had been narrow and full of rules. I believed creativity only counted if you were exceptional — an incredible singer, a skilled musician, a standout performer, or an artist who could draw perfectly. I believed art had to look a certain way and meet invisible expectations to be worth pursuing. Looking back, I realize I was always creative in my own way — I just hadn’t allowed myself to see it yet. For years, fear, anxiety, and perfectionism kept me frozen. Now, I’m beginning to give myself permission to try again. To create imperfectly. To embrace my own version of creativity.
In the next post, I reflect on the surprising truth that creativity was always there — even when I didn’t recognize it.
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