Creativity isn’t only brushstrokes and blueprints. Sometimes it’s the quiet courage to choose differently.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a creator. We attach the word to people who make tangible art. You’re a creator if you’re a designer who shapes spaces. You’re a creator if you’re a writer who crafts stories. You’re a creator if you’re a painter who creates worlds in pigment.
But what if your creativity isn’t a thing you can hang on a wall? What if it’s less tangible, but no less powerful?
I’ve made artwork before, and still I haven’t always called myself a creator. I wanted to feel creative, to be seen as someone who makes her own world, and yet I discounted the invisible ways I was already shaping it.
The truth is: I am a creator.
Every time I’m mindful of my choices, I notice not one habitual path, but a crossroads–sometimes a whole constellation of them. In those moments, I step out of the routine of my former self and make room for my future self. I create possibility. Maybe creativity isn’t only brushstrokes, blueprints, or book drafts. Maybe creativity is the decision to pause, the willingness to pivot, the practice of a truer rhythm.
My canvas is time.
My tools are awareness and decision.
And with them, I’m building a life that feels like me.
We tend to honor the artifact: the gallery exhibit, the published piece, the finished space. Artifacts are wonderful–they’re proof of process. But there’s a whole gallery that never makes it to the wall: the moment you took a breath instead of reacting; the morning you left five minutes early so you could arrive as the person you want to be; the evening you said no to an old pattern and yes to a quieter braver choice. Those don’t get framed, but they change the room you live in.
When we only celebrate visible output, we miss the craft it takes to be present enough to choose differently. Choice is composition. Awareness is brushwork. Repetition is technique.
What if “creator” describes anyone who is willing to meet a moment with awareness and shape it with intention? Under that definition, a parent comforting a child is a creator. A manager who chooses empathy over defensiveness is a creator. A neighbor who starts a community potluck is a creator. A person who changes a personal pattern is a creator.
Maybe you don’t need permission to claim that word. Maybe you just need to notice all the ways you already live it.
I still love the visible artifacts–the finished painting, the polished room, the published piece. But I no longer wait for them to validate my identity. I’m a creator not only because of what I complete, but because of what I choose.
Every fork in the road is an invitation. Every mindful decision is a brushstroke toward your future self.
