The Practice of Becoming

Part One of a Series on Creative Work and Identity

When I was little, I was called 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 left. It’s the chip I carry from childhood—the weight of being a freak who tried too hard to pass as normal.

I gave it my best shot. But anyone who knew me back then could tell you how that turned out. The effort unraveled into 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 stumbled into art through a side door. I was studying graphic design and needed a studio elective. I picked sculpture because it sounded cool. I didn’t expect it to matter. I certainly 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 real, working space full of people in motion.

Everything shifted.

It wasn’t the art itself 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. The myths I’d absorbed from books and museum walls fell apart on the spot.

What I saw wasn’t a lone genius at work.
It was 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 a thing and mean it. The moment you call it art with sincerity. And then you do it again. And again. Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s inspired. But because you choose to keep showing up.

That’s the practice.

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

And it isn’t selfish. It’s not about showing off.
At its best, it’s generous.

To make something and offer it—to say, I don’t know if this is good, but it’s real, and maybe it will mean something to someone else—that’s a gift. It doesn’t require confidence. It requires sincerity. It requires presence.

What makes the work real isn’t polish. It’s risk.
It’s the discipline of doing the thing when no one’s asking you to.
Of following an idea beyond what’s comfortable.
Of trying even when you don’t know if it’s working.

That’s what creative work is. Not a spark. Not a muse.
A sustained relationship with uncertainty.

Over time, it builds something better than inspiration.
It builds momentum. It builds identity. It builds trust with yourself.

This series is about that. About the difference 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.