Trusting the Process: Overcoming Anxiety and Reclaiming Creativity

There are days when I sit down to create, and it feels like my mind is a locked room. I know there’s something behind that door, something worth uncovering, but no matter how hard I try to force it open, it won’t budge. And when I can’t break through, that familiar voice creeps in—the one that’s always been there, waiting for its chance. It’s quiet but sharp, a whisper that cuts through everything else: Why even bother?

It’s not just a lack of inspiration. It’s anxiety. It’s the weight of every mistake I’ve ever made and every fear I’ve ever carried, pressing against me until it’s hard to breathe. Anxiety doesn’t just sit in your chest; it gets into your head. It tells you stories about yourself that aren’t true but feel so real: that you’re not enough, that you’re behind, that you’ll never catch up.

This isn’t a new feeling for me. I can trace it back to when I was a kid, sitting in class, my hand half-raised, paralyzed by fear. Not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I couldn’t bear the thought of being wrong. Of confirming, in front of everyone, what I already believed about myself: that I was slow. That I wasn’t smart enough. That I didn’t belong.

That fear never really went away. It just evolved. Now it shows up when I’m trying to create. It creeps in when I’m working on something and see someone else’s work—cleaner, sharper, better. I start comparing, and it’s like I’m stacking their polished moments against my raw ones. The voice comes back, telling me, They’re so much further ahead than you. You’ll never catch up. Why are you even trying?

It’s a vicious cycle, isn’t it? You compare yourself to someone else, someone who seems to have it all together, and suddenly your own efforts feel small, meaningless. But here’s the thing: we don’t know their whole story. I don’t know the late nights they’ve put in, the failures they’ve endured, the doubts they’ve had to fight through. Just like they don’t know mine. We all carry our own struggles, but anxiety has a way of convincing you that yours are insurmountable while everyone else has it figured out.

Anxiety doesn’t just keep you stuck—it steals your joy. It convinces you that if you’re not the best, you shouldn’t bother at all. That if you’re not perfect, you have no business showing up. And for years, I believed that. I let it stop me from taking risks, from putting myself out there, from making things just because I wanted to.

But there’s another voice, buried under all the noise. A quiet rebellion. It doesn’t shout, but it doesn’t need to—it’s persistent. It says, What if you’re wrong about all of it? What if you’re not as far behind as you think? What if this is exactly where you’re supposed to be?

That voice keeps me moving, even when the fear is overwhelming. It reminds me that creativity isn’t about being the best or having all the answers. It’s about showing up, messy and uncertain, and doing the work anyway. It’s about taking the chaos in your head and turning it into something real. And the truth is, some of the most inspiring people I’ve ever known aren’t the ones who make it look easy. They’re the ones who’ve faced rejection, failure, and doubt, and kept going anyway.

There’s something beautiful about that, isn’t there? About choosing to create even when it feels impossible. About taking the fear and the doubt and saying, I’m doing it anyway. Because that’s what creativity demands. It doesn’t wait for the fear to disappear or for the perfect moment to come. It asks you to start. Right now. As you are.

And it’s not just about the work itself. It’s about what you discover along the way. Sometimes it’s not even the finished product that matters—it’s the people you meet, the lessons you learn, the unexpected connections that change the way you see yourself and the world around you. Sometimes it’s a friend who sees something in you that you can’t see in yourself. Sometimes it’s a stranger at an event, a single conversation that shifts your entire perspective. And sometimes, it’s just you, finally realizing that you’re allowed to take up space, to exist, to create, even if it’s messy, even if it’s imperfect.

We don’t create because it’s easy. We create because it gives us life. Because it helps us make sense of a world that often feels overwhelming. We create to connect, to process, to heal. We create because it lifts us up when everything feels heavy.

Creativity is a lifeline. It’s a rebellion against the voice that says you can’t. And every time you pick up the pen, the brush, the camera—every time you start—you’re choosing to defy that voice. You’re choosing to keep going.