Let’s name something quietly painful.
You’re making art—or maybe just thinking about it. You carve out a few minutes here and there. A stolen hour. A late-night return to the page. And then… you don’t share it. You don’t post it. You don’t sell it.
And somewhere, a small voice rises up:
“If no one sees this, what’s the point?”
“Am I just wasting time?”
“Does this even count?”
It’s not that you don’t love creating. You do. But we’ve been taught to measure value by visibility—and art made in private begins to feel like a secret indulgence instead of a sacred act.
And even deeper still, there may be a quiet ache:
“Am I allowed to spend this time on myself?”
“What if this never leads to anything?”
“Who do I think I am, pretending this matters?”
These aren’t just thoughts. They are echoes—of messages we’ve absorbed our whole lives. Messages that say our value lies in our output, our visibility, our usefulness to others. Messages that make us question the very act of creating when no one is watching.
The World Teaches Us to Perform
From a young age, we’re taught to “make something of ourselves.” To work hard. Produce. Share. Be seen. Be good. Be useful.
So when we create something that doesn’t go anywhere—doesn’t earn money, gather attention, or impress anyone—our conditioning kicks in.
But what if all of that is a lie?
What if private art is not a lesser version of creativity—but the most honest, unfiltered kind?
We start performing early. We color inside the lines to get gold stars. We write poems and quickly learn to hide them if they’re not 'good enough.' Somewhere along the way, we forget how to create without performing.
And when we finally return to art as adults—after the care-giving, the striving, the proving—we don’t return as blank slates.
We bring all of that noise with us. No wonder it feels hard to make something and not immediately ask, “Should I post this? Should I monetize it? Should I explain it?”
A Personal Story I Almost Didn’t Share
There was a season in my life where everything felt… unstable.
Like the scaffolding I’d built around who I was—my title, my responsibilities, my ability to take care of everyone—had been quietly taken down, and now I was standing there with nothing to lean on.
I wasn’t painting.
I wasn’t journaling.
I wasn’t doing much of anything except trying to keep my chin up and act like I had it together.
But the truth? I felt unrecognizable to myself.
One morning, the house was quiet—too quiet.
I had cleared the breakfast dishes, wiped the counter three times, and still felt unsettled.
That hum of anxiety in my chest, the one that comes when you’re avoiding something important, was getting louder.
I walked into the garage and pulled out some old acrylic paints—still dusty, still smelling like hope—and sat at the art table.
I wasn’t trying to make anything good.
I wasn’t trying to make anything at all.
I just wanted to see what happened if I moved the brush.
At first, I painted shapes. Soft circles. Blurry edges. Lots of back and forth with black and white paint. Nothing that made sense.
Then came the color—sienna, indigo, a muted green that reminded me of Italy in the fall.
And suddenly, without warning, tears.
Not loud, not dramatic. Just a steady stream, as if my body had been waiting for permission to feel something all the way through.
No one saw that painting. I never posted it.
But I remember every brushstroke like a conversation I needed to have with myself.
Because what that moment gave me wasn’t art—it was a return.
A return to stillness.
To honesty.
To the part of me that wasn’t trying to get it right, but just trying to be real.
I tucked that little piece into my special paper’s bin.
Not because I was ashamed of it, but because it felt like something sacred—something just for me.
And I go back to it now and then, when I forget.
When I need to remember who I am beneath the noise.
That piece, unfinished and unseen, held more healing than any polished, praised, or purchased artwork I’ve ever made.
It mattered.
Maybe even more because no one else saw it.
One day—not long ago—I had a hard conversation with someone I love.
You know the kind.
The kind where you’re trying to say what you need, but it comes out messy.
The kind where your voice cracks before the sentence ends, and afterward, you’re not sure if you were too much or not enough.
There was nothing cruel said. Nothing final.
But I walked away feeling hollow. Frayed. Tender in places I didn’t expect to be touched.
I couldn’t shake it.
I didn’t want to cry, not really.
Didn’t want to talk about it or fix it or analyze it like I usually do.
I just needed to move. To do something with my hands.
Not to be productive. Just to make space for the ache.
So I grabbed a scrap piece of paper—something torn from the back of a notepad.
Not precious. Not meant for anything important.
And I started scribbling with a pencil.
Not drawing. Not even doodling.
Just pressing the lead into the paper in quick, jagged lines like I was trying to let something out of me without words.
Then I reached for the little bin where I keep papers from past workshops and old scraps of tissue paper.
A torn edge here. A word there. A strange little image of a cracked plate.
I didn’t think about how it looked. I wasn’t making a “composition.”
I was just breathing. Gluing. Layering.
Letting the doing be the processing.
And when it felt done—though nothing in me did—I tossed it on my art table.
No caption. No evaluation. No intention of sharing.
The next morning, I walked into the garage and saw it sitting there.
Raw. Crooked. Uneven.
And instantly, I thought:
“This is exactly how I feel. Unfinished. Disjointed. Still here.”
There was something deeply comforting in that.
Like the paper had held what I couldn’t name.
Like it had kept me company when I didn’t want to be with anyone else.
No one has seen that piece but me.
But I visit it sometimes, like an old friend who understands the version of me I don’t always show.
It reminds me that even when I don’t feel whole, I’m still worthy of being witnessed—
even if the only witness is a pencil line and some glue.
That little piece of scrap paper taught me something I’m still learning:
Sometimes, healing isn’t loud or beautiful.
Sometimes it’s torn edges, shaky hands, and staying with yourself anyway.
We don’t need more praise. We need more permission.
To make art without strings. To create without content. To express without expectation.
Private creativity is not a failure. It’s not a waste. It’s not indulgent.
It’s sacred.
A Gentle Note from Me to You:
There is something quietly powerful about the art we make that no one ever sees.
The following prompts will help you to honor the work you’ve made in secret—and what it gave you in return.
Writing Prompt #1
Tell me about a piece of art you made just for you. Where were you? What season of life were you in?
Writing Prompt #2
Why do you think you never shared it? What fears or beliefs kept it private?
Writing Prompt #3
What did that piece teach you about yourself?
Writing Prompt #4 (Optional)
What would it feel like to make something today—with no one else in mind?
💛 Before You Close This Page
You are not behind.
You are not wasting time.
Some of the most healing work you’ll ever do will never be seen by anyone but you.
And it will still be enough.
You are enough.
Always were.
Your hidden pieces are not failures. They are love letters to your own becoming.
They are stitched with memory, with emotion, with truth. And even in their imperfection—or maybe especially in their imperfection—they reflect something real. Something worthy.
You don’t need an audience to matter.
You don’t need a market to make meaning.
You already are an artist. A creator. A witness to your own life.
May this truth settle gently into your bones today.
P.S. — Ready to Gently Begin Again?
If something stirred in you while reading this—if you’re longing to reconnect with your creativity in a gentle, structured way—I’d love to invite you into “Start Where You Are: A 4-Week Guided Return to Art.”
It’s a Zoom live experience for women who want to return to their art with ease, kindness, and support.
No pressure. No modules. Just gentle prompts, real-time creative space, and a group of women walking this path together.
Leave a comment below and I will send you information with more details such as when it begins, what is included, and how it will help you to return to your art in a consistent way.
I often have to conquer the feeling that anything I do should be productive - meaning produce something tangible or observable. Clean the house, make dinner, sew a project all the way through to the end (and it better be a useful project!) and so on. Once I found others who value hand sewing just in its own right and process, it began to free something in me, too. Now, I integrate it into a practice that I hope will help others. Thank you for writing this. I feel seen, though our stories are different. Doing things for ourselves IS productive as it keeps us in the living.
I wrote morning pages for years and didn’t feel the need to share them or even consider doing that. Why not visual art?
Make art for me. Make art for the process the learning the satisfaction discovery pleasure the thrill.