The Practice of Becoming

Part One of a Series on Creative Work and Identity

When I was little, people called me creative. Mostly in that 1980s way, a soft label adults used to let my parents know I was a pain in the ass. I knew the world looked different to me than it did to most people. It still does. That sense of difference never really left. It’s the chip I’ve carried since childhood, the weight of being a freak who worked hard to pass as normal.

I gave it my best shot. Anyone who knew me back then could tell you how that turned out. The act eventually came apart in a kind of glorious chaos. No fear. No boundaries. No real concern for consequences. Not at first. But once I was old enough to run, I did. Not toward anything. Just away.

I found my way into art through a side door. I was studying graphic design and needed a studio elective. Sculpture sounded cool, so I signed up. I didn’t expect it to matter. I definitely didn’t expect it to change anything. And then I stepped into a shared studio for the first time. Not a gallery. Not a classroom. A working space full of people in motion. Everything shifted.

It wasn’t the finished art that changed me. It was the way the work was being made. Gritty. Physical. Urgent. The space buzzed with effort. Nothing was precious. Everything was in process. All the myths I’d absorbed from books and museum walls fell apart on the spot. I didn’t see a lone genius at work. I saw a room full of people doing the thing. No magic. No myth. Just honest labor and raw focus. That cracked something open in me.

Not because I suddenly became an artist. Because I realized no one does. That’s the myth. You aren’t born an artist. You become one the moment you make something and mean it, the moment you call it art with a straight face. Then you do it again. And again. Not because it is easy. Not because you feel inspired. Because you choose to keep showing up. That is the practice.

It is not about identity. It is not about being “a creative.” It is not a label to wear or a role to perform. It is about action. Art is a way of working, not a job title. It is something you do, not something you are.

And it is not selfish. It is not about showing off. At its best, it is generous. To make something and offer it up, to say, I do not know if this is good, but it is real, and maybe it will mean something to someone, that is a gift. It does not require confidence. It requires sincerity. It requires presence.

What makes the work real is not polish. It is risk. It is the discipline of doing the thing when no one is asking you to. Of following an idea past what feels comfortable. Of trying even when you have no proof it is working. That is what creative work is. Not a spark. Not a muse. A sustained relationship with uncertainty.

Over time, that builds something better than inspiration. It builds momentum. It builds identity. It builds trust with yourself. This series is about that. About the gap between making and performing. About the myths that keep people stuck. About the quiet power of choosing to begin. About the practice of becoming, not once, but over and over again.