On creativity - Fear
I created a meditation room out of fear. It wasn’t a space for meditation in the traditional sense but a place for discovering my new artistic project, which I felt too vulnerable to share. It was the beginning of my artistic career, and even now, I’m not a particularly confident artist or person. It was 2013, and my professional art career had started with a series of works that I felt proud of, but they still felt slightly off to me. They were obviously beautiful: floral and organic forms filled with soft, flowing lines. It was also a time of extensive travel and learning about Buddhism. I met two people who encouraged me to believe in my art—one offered me support for my living situation, and the other wanted to create my solo show. Around the same time, I met many artists who were making more conceptual work. All these elements came together when I finally decided to create a large piece filled with repetitive lines. The work would take months to complete. I felt both excited and scared.
I remember the moment I pushed myself to go out and buy a large piece of paper, 130cm wide. I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I bought a circle to draw in the center. In my apartment, I had an empty room, which I decided to turn into my meditation room where I could work on this project. I arranged everything on the floor and began to draw, using the thinnest nib pen I could find, completing one half-circle at a time and erasing every imperfection.
Every time someone visited, I would close the door to the room. No one was allowed in—not even my brother, who lived in the next building and often came over, nor any friends or dates. It was a secret. It had to be secret because I was afraid. I feared that even one critical look at what I was doing might make me stop. It would fill me with doubt. Like an alcoholic avoiding temptation to minimize the risk of relapse, I isolated this vulnerable part of myself to avoid any comment or reaction that could undermine my confidence and make me give up.
After about two months of working on the piece, I reached a point where there was no turning back. It felt like I was in the middle of running a marathon—too far in to quit. Slowly, I began showing the work to a few friends, and to my surprise, everyone was amazed. With each compliment, my confidence grew, and it helped that the artwork genuinely turned out beautiful. I worked on it every day for four months.
After that experience, I began creating art more confidently (though not completely without fear), knowing my strengths and weaknesses. It was an important step, and that isolation helped me cope with my fear. Stepping into the unknown is always intimidating. Even now, despite having confronted fear many times, I still experience it when starting something new. Different projects bring different fears: the fear of being judged, of seeming weird, of being unaccepted, rejected, a failure, or even successful (yes, success can be scary too). There’s also the fear of disappointing myself or others, of feeling shame or guilt. All these emotions can surface just by staring at an empty canvas, a blank page, or a laptop screen, knowing you’re about to express yourself.
For me, starting to write brought a specific fear: the fear of being seen as stupid. It probably stemmed from my school days, where the system didn’t support kids like me, who had learning difficulties but were obviously creative. I was never traditionally smart; I couldn’t memorize things, so I found other ways to navigate school, like forming good relationships with teachers. Later, I discovered that speaking quickly and confidently could hide my weaknesses in English. But writing was different. When I wrote, people could pick apart my grammar and ideas without the distraction of my personality. Years of practice and therapy have helped me overcome these fears (mostly). My desire to express myself clearly outweighed the shame I felt about my writing. Writing, I realized, is a powerful tool for organizing your thoughts, and doing it publicly allows for feedback that can refine your ideas and bring new insights.
Unlike the meditation room, where I hid my work, I chose to expose my writing to judgment. It was a way to confront my fear and push past the shame. Each fear requires a different approach. When I started doing photography, I felt like an imposter again. But instead of hiding or forcing myself forward, I took things slowly, learning step by step.
Fear is everywhere in creative work. Even the most successful writers and artists face it when confronted with a blank canvas or page. It’s normal. The question is: what do you do with that fear? Do you let it paralyze you, or do you let it motivate you to create something better?
We are social creatures who crave acceptance and validation. We want to be seen as talented, successful, and loved. When we engage in creative pursuits that reflect who we truly are, we face the risk of not meeting our own expectations. Children, who delight in the mess they create, only begin to feel shame when they are compared to peers who win medals or earn praise. As we grow, the stakes get higher, and our inner critic, which once sounded like our parents, starts to sound like everyone around us, including those who pay for our creative output.
None of us starts as a professional in anything new. Growing up, we often take ourselves too seriously, feeling ashamed of being beginners. We fear that if we finally express an idea we’ve cherished for years and it doesn’t live up to our expectations, it will confirm our worst suspicions—that the idea was never worth pursuing. This fear is amplified because we all have an image of our ideal selves, and every new endeavor risks shattering it. Maybe we aren’t as smart, talented, or successful as we’d hoped. The safest option is to do nothing. I understand why some people choose that path.
But sometimes, we give fear too much power, ignoring the joy hidden behind it. For example, writing is hard for me, but it also brings relief, like emptying my mind of clutter, and the satisfaction of doing difficult work. Running, too, was miserable at first but eventually brought me joy.
Fears are strange things. They aren’t rooted in reality but in our internal, often irrational beliefs. We worry that if we start expressing ourselves, we’ll lose control or be consumed by it. We fear both failure and success. Fear can either drive us or paralyze us, and our psyche doesn’t always distinguish between real and perceived threats.
Many people never try because they want instant greatness: money, recognition, or love. I’ve felt that disappointment, like when I expected my first art show to change my life. It didn’t. The truth is, we need to lower our expectations and stop comparing ourselves to others.
I admire people who put out imperfect work, like a writer who, when told about typos, responded, “Fuck you, I wrote a book. What have you done?” It’s not about perfection; it’s about doing the work. With so many people in the world, there’s an audience for everything. If your first attempt isn’t perfect, try again. Even the masters sometimes produce mediocre work.
Fear is often absorbed from our environment. Anxious parents or well-meaning friends may project their own worries onto us. Social media can make traditional success seem like the only path. Even if we think we’re strong-minded, our subconscious absorbs these messages. Surrounding ourselves with supportive, creative people is crucial. Sometimes inspiration comes from real people, and other times it comes from books or accounts that inspire us without making us feel inadequate. And yes, sometimes dealing with fear involves spending 200 euros on therapy, getting drunk, meditating, or just pushing forward and hoping for the best.
Ultimately, fear is a constant companion in creativity. It can make us doubt ourselves, but it can also drive us to grow. When we understand that fear is part of the process, we can use it to push beyond our comfort zones. Growth comes from confronting and working through fear. So when you feel fear, pause, reconsider, and let curiosity, not fear, guide you.
If you enjoy my work, my writing you can now support me directly through [Buy Me a Coffee]. Every contribution goes toward paper, ink, and keeping these projects alive and accessible.
