Even art school is a game you can’t win. My skills were measured against the perfectionism of the masters or worse, my classmates. Grades are based on how well you captured the reality of what’s in front of you compared with the skills of your peers. The fact that I received almost straights A’s in art tells you only one thing; I can follow rules. But it doesn’t reflect my mental health after years of comparing my work to everyone else’s and the constant focus on approval. I was always watching my teachers and peers for that look of awe on their faces after checking out one of my works. If that’s not a set-up to failure, I don’t know what is. Then there’s the uphill battle of the “poor artist” stereotype. So people who are creative are supposed to stay poor? Our talents aren’t worth at least a middle class income? What kind of shit is that? Don’t get me started.

I caved. I lived my adult years by the rules. STABILITY: pay that mortgage; keep that job, hard work is the only way to success. Who the hell told me to trust those morons anyway? But for most of my life, I hid it well. I slapped on the corporate wardrobe and headed to an office to serve my time as my art supplies lay abandoned the majority of the time. Over the years, my clothes became greyer and my creativity became non-existent as I watched my ideas fall on deaf ears. “Excuse me; did you really interview me for a creative problem solver? Because your actions say you really wanted an opinion-less robot.”

By my early forties, my life seemed useless. I felt like I failed at my dreams and replaced them with someone else’s. I felt invisible at work and had focused all my time to creating stability for my daughter. The only creativity left for me was a few moments when I wasn’t exhausted or working; which was rare. And who was I creating for anyway, what was the point?

So when I was faced with a possible terminal health issue, I was relieved. Heck yeah, I have an excuse to check out! No more stress around money, losing weight, cleaning the house… see ya! But I even failed at that, I was going to live. Wtf?

I knew I needed to look for some help that would bring me back into the living cuz I sure as hell wasn’t going to live the same life. I don’t know what I believe. I don’t know what TO believe. I don’t know if I have a direct connection to God and he only answers when I’m in deep shit, if the stars were aligned or if there was a lucky clover invading my lawn. But something tiny happened. I answered a free in person seminar ad that promised to help me become more me and help me find my value. My value? Now that hit home, I couldn’t see any.

It’s ironic. I tell teams that each person belongs. Each person is a piece of the puzzle and has something to add. So why did I think I wasn’t a part of the puzzle? It wasn’t a bolt of lightning that shocked the sense back into me or an overnight visit from an angel showing me my importance. I wish it had been – could’ve saved me years. But it WAS a lot of shoveling through deep piles of shit, a little at a time, that needed to be mixed with healthy soil to get things growing again. My creative expression began to ooze out of my pores and into my smile.