Imposter syndrome comes knocking

From writer to artist to writer, yet, again

I was 19 when the admissions committee at a prestigious design college in India said I was “clearly not an artist!” There was such finality to their statement as they flipped through my portfolio of meticulously-colored portraits, detailed landscapes and poignant poetry. I was deemed “unimaginative, unoriginal and having average talent.” They suggested a career in writing. Maybe?

Self-doubt, self-hatred, and an all-consuming feeling of worthlessness is all I remember leaving with … along with a crushed dream in my trembling hands.

25 years later, it still stings. It hurts because it became my truth. All those labels stuck with me. I was only good at copying the masters … not good enough to make something on my own. It also came with the implication that I could not learn … that I should simply give up. And that’s exactly what I did.

Five years later, I had a master’s degree in journalism and a job at a foster care nonprofit as their communications coordinator. Ten years after that I was heading the philanthropy communications team at a healthcare facility.

I had a cushy job, fueled by penning articles for the annual report, ghost-writing speeches for the CEO and profiling wealthy donors. But I never questioned it … because this is what the art experts said I could be good at.

And what other option did I have? I was “clearly not an artist.”

In 2010 there was a shift when Instagram was launched, and along with it, the iPhone App Store offered a multitude of “photography apps.” I jumped at the possibility of creatively editing my digital images – it filled a hole in my heart and, before I knew it, I had found a community of like-minded people across the country.

When I was invited to be a guest speaker at the San Francisco flagship Apple Store in 2012, this is the bio I sent them: “I’m not an artist. I’m not a photographer. I’ve never been a visual person. For as long as I can remember, I’ve played with words – whether to earn a living or to relax, words have always been my trusted companions. Or they were, until December 2010 when I discovered Instagram. iPhone in hand, I shot everything and everyone. Told you, not an artist. Nor a photographer. But as that love affair with this app continued and my paths crossed those of distinguished iPhoneographers, I gave up my trusted companions for a beau who unleashed the creativity inside; who didn’t require much thought or finesse; who was happy with my quiet contemplations. I started seeing the world anew. 109 apps, $150 of iTunes expenses in the “photography” category, and many worldwide exhibits later, being a writer comes second. Being an iPhoneographer is second nature.”

2012: With my award-winning “Choo-Choo Train” on display at an art gallery in Berkeley

While I wrote that, I also knew that this creative pursuit was just a hobby! I dismissed what I felt called to do as a side gig … almost afraid to own it, to declare that I wanted it to be more than a leisurely amateur interest, to pour myself into it. And I’ve often wondered if it was because of that moment when I was told I was not good enough.

Despite having my iPhone art exhibited in London, New York, Denver and San Francisco, despite being called an “expert” at using apps to make photographs look painterly, despite teaching a class on iPhoneography at a local art center … how could I have delusions of grandeur and refer to myself as an artist? I was “clearly not an artist.”

It was undebatable.

And life would have continued in this ho-hum way had I not become pregnant in 2013. Suddenly, there were no expectations of me. I could quit my job without any other explanation besides “I want to enjoy this time.” I could digitally manipulate photos all day long, because it made me happy. And everyone knows, a happy mama makes a healthy baby.

I felt free.

My sense of self-esteem and self-worth had never been stronger. I didn’t have to do better, be better, or actually even do anything. Not doing a job was completely acceptable — to everyone around me, and, therefore, to myself.

I took long walks, I read books, I wrote, I enjoyed listening to music lazily sunning myself on our deck. It was the happiest I had ever been in my life.

When our daughter came along, it wasn’t what I had expected. I have never shared with anyone how intensely depressed I was. I had looked forward to being a mom my entire pregnancy but that first week, that first month, that first year…it was torture every day.

I hated it.

I hated being saddled with a child who had a spectrum of 32 severe and mild allergies. I hated being under house arrest. I hated her dependence on me for survival. I hated being a housewife and that feeling of having to justify I was “doing my bit” by child-rearing, house-cleaning, laundry-folding and cooking.

Was this what my life had become?

Thus, began a downward spiral of fading self-esteem. Guilt, shame, self-doubt, a feeling that I hadn’t made any right choices in my life…a sense of being a liability more than an asset…a free-loader…I wasn’t supposed to be just a housewife or just a mother.

I had been told my entire life that I had the brains and the smarts to be more than that. And here I was, not a writer, not an artist. Just an utter disappointment … a mother who didn’t even enjoy being one.

I conjured up ways of killing myself in a way that would be least cumbersome for those I’d leave behind. I researched so many options. Such a despicable human being with no respect or gratitude for life.

One night, I swallowed a bottle of painkillers and promptly threw up. That was the lowest moment of my life but also the most pivotal one. As my life flashed before me, I envisioned a different version … one in which I was painting on a beach with my toddler building a sand castle beside me, enveloped in the warmth of the sun, embraced by Mother Nature as we were – flawed and broken.

The next morning, as my little one smooshed Tempera paints on our wood floor, I quietly watched. She giggled as she deliberately poured paint on a surface she shouldn’t have, swiping it around, wiping it on our clothes, getting our furniture messy.

Instead of feeling infuriated, I joined her.

My drooling, teething baby was showing me the world through her perspective. She was making her own version of art with no rules, no color theory, no sense of what art even was. She didn’t have anything to prove to anyone, any statement to make or any canvases to sell.

She was simply playing! Oh to have that freedom! I clutched on to it and I held on tight.

What made her smile gave me an oasis – I bought some paper and “real” paints so I could feed my soul.

Soon, scribbles turned into stories, thumbprints became art marks and messy fingers bore testimony to days filled with creative explorations.

And I found myself exhaling.

For the first time, I felt like an artist. A “real” artist. And I didn’t need any external validation or approval for calling myself one. In fact, when I first displayed my paintings at the Los Altos Library in 2017, I wrote “self-taught artist” in the little bio and got a chuckle out of it. I was an artist without any training, without a certificate, without permission from the powers that be. It felt rebellious. It felt oh-so-right.

Exhibiting my fluid art paintings on wood and tile at the Los Altos Library in 2017

I had rediscovered an energy and a passion I felt I could no longer experience. And I slowly started sharing it with the world.

And now, a decade later, I have amassed a gargantuan library of mixed media art. I am not a specialist, I don’t have a niche, I don’t think I will ever be known for “that one thing” like most famous artists are, but I have something more than what is widely recognized as success: I have a whole community of empowered women who are finding the confidence to simply be who they want to be.

And, unknowingly in their own beautiful way, they have ignited a fire within me. They’ve shown me that it’s time to rise, to expand, to live life in a joy-filled way.

At the beginning of this month, I joined my husband’s startup as a communications specialist and am enjoying wordsmithing … giving voice to a vision, uncovering and sharing dreams and aspirations, creating compelling narratives and flexing my editing muscles. This new chapter feels exhilarating, a homecoming of sorts. After a fulfilling season of finger-painting, exploring various artistic styles, and inspiring many individuals to find their own voice, this feels like a natural progression … an opportunity to channel my creativity and experience into something that will have a lasting impact, albeit in a different way.

While being surrounded by seasoned professionals after a decade-long hiatus from the corporate world is a bit nerve-wracking, I’m confident in the unique perspective and skills I bring to the table, many of which are a result of my journey as an artist.

I am giving myself permission to enjoy this season to the fullest. To fill my heart with ease. To not let the raised eyebrows that question “do you even know what you’re doing with your life?” slow me down.

We get beat down by many outside forces that stop us from ever starting … the ideas that people have of who we are, what we should be, and what we should do.

I have struggled with them my entire life only to realize that when you’re truly passionate about something, it can never lead you astray.

Time and time again, if you find yourself circling back to the things that bring you joy — be it cooking or painting or writing — then have the courage to pursue those avenues.

I am choosing to trust my instincts, acquire some new skills, polish some rusty old ones, and pursue what resonates with me in the here and now.

I am choosing to embrace every facet of myself, from the love of words to the passion for colorful play.

I am choosing to reject the notion that one passion is more valid than another. I am choosing to embrace the beautiful complexity of my own desires, even if it doesn’t make sense on a business card.

Most importantly, I am choosing to live a life defined by my own terms. It’s too short not to.