I grew up around creativity. I performed, I rehearsed, I showed up. From the outside, it probably looked like creativity was already part of my life.
Despite all that, I never felt like I could call myself creative.
Creativity seemed almost magical. It was something other people with very different lives than mine experienced – either born through a place of personal pain or emerging from a kind of innate brilliance. You either had it or you didn’t.
Even during my college internships, creativity felt fleeting. I would feel the rush of inspiration, be encouraged by early feedback, and then crushed by the weight of some one else’s judgment: a look or comment that made me feel unqualified or exposed. I couldn’t seem to hold onto that momentum for very long.
It wasn’t until I started working at an advertising agency, Runyon Saltzman, that I gained a more grounded understanding of how creativity actually works. I saw creative briefs with seemingly rigid guidelines and constraints, and yet creativity still found a way to flourish within them.
I began to understand that creativity isn’t about perfection. It’s about expression, trust and honesty. And maybe most of all, creativity comes from vulnerability. Vulnerability born not just from pain, but from a willingness to share something raw, intimate, and unpolished with others.
For the first time, creativity felt less like a test and more like a practice.
When did you first decide whether or not you were “creative?”
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