Maybe I Was Never Really an Artist

Jun 03, 2025

There’s a fear I’ve carried quietly for years.
It’s not loud. It doesn’t shout.
But it’s sharp.

It shows up right before I sit down to create,
when my hand hesitates over the paper,
and it says:

“Maybe I’m not really an artist.”
“Maybe I was never that talented to begin with.”
“Maybe I’ve just been pretending all this time—and someday, someone will see through me.”

Have you ever felt that?

It’s not just self-doubt. It’s identity-deep.

Not “I’m struggling with art.”

But “Maybe I don’t even belong here.”

And because that fear feels so private, so shameful—
we pull away from the very people and places that might help us feel less alone.

We stop showing up.
We stop trying.
We mourn a creative life we haven’t even fully lived.

The Moment I Thought It Was All Fake

I signed up for an in-person painting retreat.

I was nervous but excited—ready to push myself. Ready to be seen.

I packed my brushes, my favorite palette, and a notebook full of ideas.

By the second morning, we were painting beautiful flowers on different papers.

A woman in the workshop—probably in her late 40s—was fast, bold, and confident.

I glanced at her painting, then mine.

Hers looked like it belonged in a gallery.

Mine looked... childish. Like a mess I should apologize for.

She said something like, “I love your colors, they’re so happy!”

But my ears twisted it into, “You’re not serious. You’re not skilled.”

That night I went back to my room, crawled under the covers, and cried.

I actually googled: “How do you know if you’re a real artist?”

The shame wasn’t just about comparison.

It was this ancient ache that maybe I was kidding myself.

That maybe I’d spent years pretending—and was finally being found out.

The next morning, I didn’t show up to the morning session.

I walked around the property instead, numb.

Until I found a little vine-wrapped bench and sat down hard, hands clenched.

I heard a voice in my mind—not a booming one.

Just a whisper: “You don’t have to prove anything. You already are.”

Something softened.

And I walked back into the studio—not to compete, not to impress,
but to remember what it feels like to make something for no one but me.

The Lie That Keeps Us Stuck

We’re taught that only certain people “deserve” to be called artists.

If you’re good enough.
If you’re skilled enough.
If you’ve sold something.
If you never waver.
If it looks like magic every time.

But that’s a lie.
A cruel one.

Because the truth is: doubt doesn’t mean you’re a fraud.
Doubt means you care.
It means your art matters to you.
It means you’re alive in the process—not coasting, but feeling.

The Reframe That Set Me Free

You don’t become an artist by proving it.

You already are one if:

• You feel the nudge to make something.
• You’re curious, even if you're scared.
• You keep returning to the page, the paint, the movement—because it stirs something in you.
• You care deeply, even if your work doesn’t turn out the way you hoped.

You’re not faking it.
You’re becoming.
You’re answering a call your soul has whispered since you were small.

A Tiny Invitation

Make something today.

Not for validation.
Not to fix anything.
Not to prove you’re good enough.

Make something because it reminds you of who you are underneath all the noise.

Write one true sentence.

Sketch something with your eyes closed.

Doodle while dinner simmers.

Tear a magazine into scraps and make a collage with no plan.

Let it be messy. Let it be nothing.

Let it be yours.

Want to go a little deeper?

I created these gentle journal prompts to help you quiet the fear and reconnect with your creative truth.

You can use them one at a time or just pick the one that stirs something in you.

Journal Prompts for When You Feel Like You’re Just Pretending

You don’t need to force clarity or write something profound.

Just let your pen move, one breath at a time.

You’re not trying to solve anything—you’re listening to the parts of you that need a little more love.

When did I first feel the desire to create—before anyone told me if I was good or not?
(What was I doing? What made it feel right?)
What do I think being a “real artist” means?
(Where did I get that definition? Who gave it to me? Do I still want it?)
What if I’m not faking—what if I’m just in the middle of becoming?
(What would I do differently if I truly believed that?)
What hurts most about thinking I might not be good enough?
(Let it out. No judgment. Just truth.)
What part of me already knows I belong here?
(Write from her voice. What would she say to me today?)
What tiny, no-pressure creative act could I do today—just for me, with no one watching?

If you’ve ever worried that you don’t belong—
If you’ve ever questioned whether you’re really an artist—
If you’ve ever carried that whisper of shame:

Please hear this: