I am a creative.

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I am a creative.

It took me a really long time to be able to say those words out loud. I didn’t believe them. To me, creatives were the women in cat eye glasses and paint-splattered overalls. Their personalities were big to match their sculptures and artwork.

I was none of those things.

I am quiet and my creativity tends to be relegated to a screen. Not to mention, my simple, classic taste in clothing.

And yet, creative is the very best way to describe who I am and how my brain works. I think in visuals and I feel in words.

I see spaces not for what they are but what they could be. I can picture the perfect rug to fit inside my living room and the various ways we could turn it to make it look its best. I imagine paint colors and the way they’ll transform a blah room.

I see an image and know immediately that it would make a powerful magazine cover. As I’m designing, I can conjure up the image that would perfectly fit the words, and then I obsess until I can find it, or create it myself. I make words dance across the page to get the importance of them across at a glance.

I see little moments with my boys and know how I want to capture them with my camera. Through my lens I can choose the best angle to highlight a sweet moment, or capture the excitement of play. I step back and watch a family enjoy each other and click the shutter at the exact moment the mom throws her head back in laughter or her son explodes in giggles.

I allow the words to flow from my fingers to help me process my life. When I feel overwhelmed, I write. When I feel alone, I write. When I feel excited, apprehensive, scared, nervous, thankful, I write.


It took me a long time to get to a place of accepting my creativity. And accepting that creativity looks different to everyone. I have an artist’s brain - the paint splatters are just hidden away inside.

This post is inspired by illuminate, a writing membership dedicated to shining a light on the creative within.