I Lost Myself in the Fear of Criticism

I used to believe that art was freedom — until I let other people put chains on my creativity.

When I first picked up a paintbrush at the age of ten, it wasn’t because someone told me I was good at it. It wasn’t to win awards or impress friends. It was because colors made me happy. Mixing blue and yellow into a shade of green that didn’t exist anywhere else felt like magic. I didn’t think about "good" or "bad." I just painted because it felt like breathing.

But somewhere along the way, something changed.

In high school, people started complimenting my work. At first, it was thrilling. Every “wow” and “you're so talented” made me soar. But slowly, painting stopped being just mine. It became a performance. If a piece didn’t get enough praise, I would call it a failure. If someone criticized a choice I made, I would obsess over it for days. Every stroke was second-guessed. Every canvas was weighed down by invisible judges I had invented in my head.

By the time I reached my early twenties, painting felt more like a battlefield than a sanctuary.

I still painted, but rarely with joy. I was terrified of messing up. Sketches piled up unfinished. Ideas died before they made it past pencil lines. When I did finish a piece, I would stare at it, picking apart every imperfection until the pride was crushed under the rubble of self-doubt.

Eventually, I stopped altogether.

I told myself I was "taking a break," but days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The brushes gathered dust. My paints dried up. My sketchbook remained closed on my shelf, like a door I no longer had the courage to open.

One rainy afternoon, while cleaning my room, I found something buried under old textbooks — a tiny canvas no bigger than my hand. On it was a crude painting of a sunflower. The petals were uneven, the colors outside the lines, and the proportions hilariously off.

I remembered that sunflower. I had painted it when I was eleven. No sketch. No plan. Just me, some cheap paints, and a wild determination to make something beautiful.

It was terrible by every technical standard.

And yet, staring at it, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: pride. Not because it was "good." But because it was mine. It was honest. It was joyful.

I sat down on the floor, canvas in hand, and cried.

All this time, I had been chasing perfection — but perfection had never been the point. The little girl who painted the sunflower didn’t care if the petals were crooked. She painted because it made her feel alive.

Where had that little girl gone?

At that moment, I made a decision. I didn’t care if my next painting was ugly. I didn’t care if no one liked it. I would paint again — not for likes, not for applause, not even for validation. I would paint for the feeling. For me.

I pulled out my old supplies. Some paints were unusable, but I salvaged what I could. I tore a sheet out of my sketchbook and taped it to the table. And for the first time in a long time, I just... painted.

I didn't sketch first. I didn't check reference photos. I didn't even think about what I was doing. I let my hand move however it wanted, choosing colors that felt right rather than colors that "matched."

It was messy. It was chaotic. It was imperfect.

It was wonderful.

As the paint dried, I realized something: creativity isn’t about being fearless. It's about creating despite the fear. It's about understanding that criticism, both external and internal, will always exist — but it doesn’t get to decide whether you make something.

In the days and weeks that followed, I made it a ritual: 30 minutes of painting every morning, no rules, no expectations. Some days, I loved what came out. Other days, I wanted to rip the page apart. But no matter what, I painted.

Slowly, the fear shrank. The joy grew.

I even started sharing my work again — not on giant public platforms, but with a few trusted friends. Their support reminded me that vulnerability is powerful. Art is powerful. And no one can take that away unless you hand it to them.

Today, I still struggle with self-doubt. I still hear the whispers of "not good enough" from time to time. But now, when they come, I remember the little sunflower painting tucked safely inside my desk drawer.

I remember why I started.

Not for praise. Not for validation.

For the love of it.

And that love — that messy, imperfect, stubborn love — will always be enough.