“I’m Not Creative”

On creativity, doubt, and the stories we tell ourselves

“I’m not creative” is something I hear often. Sometimes it’s said quickly, sometimes with a small laugh, sometimes with a hint of apology — as if it were a confession of some personal failing. Just as often, it shows up in a slightly different way: “I’m not good at art.”

People often say this to me nervously before a session — sometimes even before they’ve tried the process at all or when they first hear what I do. Usually, it’s a way of naming a fear or sense of shame around this idea of ‘not being creative’. And I understand it. I am one of those people too, and have been on my own journey of changing my relationship to this.

For many of us, these statements feel like facts. But what I notice, again and again, is that “I’m not creative” or “I’m not good at art” often settle in as identity markers rather than being recognised as stories that formed over time. When we slow down and listen more closely, they tend to say less about ability and more about relationship — about how creativity was once met, and what it learned to expect.

Creativity isn’t a talent. It’s a relationship.

We’re used to talking about creativity as something you either have or don’t have — a talent, a gift, a skill that belongs to artists and other “creative people.” In this framing, creativity becomes something external, something to measure yourself against, rather than something you’re already in conversation with.

In my experience, creativity makes more sense when we think of it as a relationship. Like any relationship, it’s shaped by experience, environment, permission, and safety. It can feel playful or hesitant, distant or alive, depending on what it has been asked to hold.

For many people, early on, creativity became associated with performance or judgment. As we grow older, we’re encouraged to think in terms of outcomes — what’s good or bad, right or wrong, successful or not. Where creativity once lived in play, imagination, and experimentation, it gradually became something to evaluate.

As children, we tend to create without stopping to ask whether what we’re making is good. We build worlds, invent stories, and follow curiosity wherever it leads. Over time, many of us learn to categorise — ourselves and others — and creativity becomes something we’re either “good at” or not. This shift begins to create distance in our relationship with making.

One of the quiet joys of creative practice is returning to that earlier quality of openness by rediscovering a sense of wonder, permission, and curiosity that doesn’t depend on outcomes.

Music producer and author Rick Rubin speaks to this broader understanding of creativity when he writes:

“Regardless of whether or not we’re formally making art, we are all living as artists. We perceive, filter, and collect data, then curate an experience for ourselves and others based on that information set. Whether we do this consciously or unconsciously, by the mere fact of being alive, we are active participants in the ongoing process of creation.”

Seen this way, creativity isn’t limited to what we make with our hands. It’s present in how we choose, respond, arrange, notice, and make meaning. The question shifts from “Am I creative?” to something gentler and more honest: “What has my relationship with creativity been like — and what might it need now?”

Where the idea of “not creative” often begins

When people say they’re not creative, it’s rarely because they’ve never had a creative impulse. More often, it’s because something happened along the way that shaped how safe creativity felt.

For many of us, this begins in subtle, ordinary places. A comment at school. A comparison to someone who seemed more talented. A moment where the focus shifted from exploring to producing something “right.” As expectations grow, creativity can move from being an open field into something evaluated by teachers, peers, families, or eventually by ourselves.

I often notice that adults carry a surprisingly clear memory of when they decided they weren’t creative anymore. It’s not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s simply the moment when play gave way to performance, when outcomes began to matter more than process, and when making became something you could succeed or fail at.

Over time, this can lead to a kind of self-protection. If creativity feels like a place where judgment lives, stepping back can feel sensible, even wise. We slowly stop making altogether. We tell ourselves we’re not artistic, not imaginative, not creative — and in doing so, we put distance between ourselves and something that once felt natural.

Seen this way, “I’m not creative” isn’t a lack. It’s a response. And like any response, it can be met with understanding rather than correction.

Reconnecting with creativity, gently

If creativity is a relationship, then it doesn’t need to be forced back into place. Relationships shift over time. They quieten, change shape, and sometimes wait patiently until the conditions feel safe again.

For many people, reconnecting with creativity begins not by trying harder, but by lowering the stakes. By entering spaces where there is no expectation to be good at art, to produce something meaningful, or to explain what has been made. Where curiosity is enough.

This is where expressive arts offers a different kind of invitation. By emphasising process over outcome and sensitivity over skill, it creates conditions where creativity can be met without pressure. Making becomes less about proving something, and more about listening — to sensation, image, movement, or impulse — and responding with care.

Over time, this can gently shift the relationship. Creativity may begin to feel less like a test and more like a companion. Less like something you either have or don’t have, and more like something you’re already in conversation with.

And often, that’s the quiet resolution: not becoming “creative” in a new way, but remembering that creativity was always with you — in you, and already part of how you move through the world.

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