I have always wanted to be an artist. Most of my life, my friends, my partners, and people whom I admired and learned from have been artists. But I never felt like I was an “artist.” Remember, I was the little girl whose 2nd grade teacher definitively asserted on my report card that I had no artistic talent whatsoever. So for a long time, I resigned myself to being “the smart one.” I focused my energies on academics while filling my free-time with visiting museums and galleries, going to the theatre, connecting relationally to artists, and wishing I could be like “them.”
Finally, my heart gave in. I decided sitting on the creative sidelines wasn’t an option anymore. And since then, I’ve been steady on my journey of crafting a juicy, inspired, and creative life. My road hasn’t been an easy one, and I continually find myself battling the demons inside that call me an “imposter” and scoff at my yearnings. But I persist.
This past week, two different people on separate occasions referred to me as an “artist.” Me, an artist…I was successful both times in not correcting them, though the demons would have preferred me to. And in the days that have passed since those utterances, I’ve been hearing the reverberations of that word…artist. And I’ve been trying that word on, seeing how it fits. I am an artist. It still feels a bit uncomfortable, like an itchy tag at the back of my shirt. But maybe one day soon, artist will feel like a worn-in leather glove.