WORRY Is the Reason We Stop Creating

I used to think I had a consistency problem.

I’d sign up for an art course, full of good intentions.
I’d buy the supplies.
I’d clear off the table.
I’d set aside time.

And then…
Life would happen.

A child would need something.
A phone call would rattle me.
The dishwasher would break.
The world would fall apart, again, in the news.
And the small window I had carved out for creativity would quietly close.

Not because I didn’t want to make art.
Not because I wasn’t committed.
But because I was worried.

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Not just the obvious worry — like “What if I mess this up?” or “What if this looks terrible?”
But the deeper, more invisible kind:

• What if I should be doing something more important?

• What if someone I love is suffering and I’m missing it?

• What if the world is on fire and I’m over here painting flowers?

That kind of worry is sneaky.
It doesn’t shout. It shames.
It convinces us that making art is frivolous, selfish, naïve.

And when you’re someone who’s spent your life being the strong one, the helper, the responsible one — it’s easy to believe it.

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One day, not long ago, I sat down at my little art table with every intention of painting.

It was all ready: clean water, good paper, music playing, space carved out.
And then I got a text from someone I love who was having a hard time.

My stomach tightened. My heart started spinning.

I stood up, left the brushes untouched, and spent the next hour trying to problem-solve something I had no control over.

Afterward, I felt depleted. Not helpful. Not proud. Just… hollow.

And as I walked back past the table, I caught a glimpse of my untouched palette.

It almost made me cry.

Because what I needed that day — what might have grounded me, soothed me, reminded me who I was — was right there.

But worry had pulled me away again.

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Worry tricks us into thinking we’re being responsible.

That if we just keep holding everything together, everything and everyone will be okay.

But here’s what I’ve learned: Worry doesn’t protect us. It depletes us.

And when it becomes our constant state, creativity becomes a casualty.

You don’t create from hypervigilance.

You don’t make beautiful things when you’re bracing for impact.

You create when your nervous system has room to breathe.

When your heart has somewhere soft to land.

And art — even ten imperfect minutes of it — can be that soft place.

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You don’t need to wait for the worry to go away to return to your art.

You just need to stop believing that worry is more worthy of your time.

What if making something — anything — is the most faithful, life-affirming act you can offer in the middle of uncertainty?

What if you’re not ignoring the world by making art… you’re refusing to let the world harden you?

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If worry has been in the way lately, try this:

• Don’t fight it. Don’t shame it. Just notice it.

• Sit down anyway.

• Set a timer for ten minutes.

• Put something on paper. A color. A line. A shape. A scribble. A truth.

Art doesn’t need to be good to be healing.

It just needs to be honest.

And if all you can manage is a shaky little “I’m here,” put that on the page.

That’s a beginning.

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Writing Prompts

1. What does worry sound like in my mind? What does it keep saying?

2. Whose needs do I always put before my own creativity?

3. What would happen if I let art be a part of how I cope — not something I earn after everything else is fixed?

4. What’s one small act of creation I can offer myself this week, even with worry still sitting beside me?

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Want a Little Help?

I made a free guide called Create Through the Worry ~ a gentle. companion when worry feels louder than your creativity. Use it to name what’s heavy, reclaim what’s yours, and take one. small step back into art

[👉 Click here to download it.]

And if this post spoke to you, I’d love to hear:
What do you tend to worry about most — and what’s one way you could create with the worry, not after it?

Still creating, still becoming, still learning to set the worry down,
Lynn