I will never stop creating.

I remember the day I decided I wanted to pursue art and take it “seriously”. I had been making art my whole life. Since I was a little kid, I would be on stage dancing, singing, and acting. I was always writing, drawing, painting, glueing things together, making things out of fabrics and nick nacks. Creating has always felt like meditation — like a portal of possibilities. The more you create, the more fueled you feel, the closer you step into freedom. And so in high school, I decided that’s what I wanted to do my whole life. To create, to tell stories, to weave worlds together.

I took some time off school and I was making art that really felt like me. I got to know myself—my culture, my heart, my mind, my soul—so much, and I attracted people who were on the same paths. I didn’t plan to but I guess when you are doing the things that make you feel happy and you, it naturally happens. It was invigorating. I still am inspired by every person I’ve ever met who has shared their hearts with me, both through art and conversations. Somewhere along the line, I started to feel a little lost in my practice. I thought it was because I was too submerged in my art that I needed a break or because it just became too methodical or because now there is this pressure to monetize it or to become “successful”. It was that and worse — I realized now I have to keep producing. That’s the key word. Producing. Producing felt jarring. It felt like being kept in a room with boring white walls with no windows. It felt okay for a bit. I was focused. But that was not the point of creation. Creating is different from producing. Creation has a flow — you don’t force it, it comes to you. That’s why creative blocks are important. They allow you to observe, to seek out. After all, it’s not healthy to always be producing. Feeling stuck is a part of the flow of creation. So everytime the block comes and I know I have to do the “living”, I lean into it. And then this fear of not being “successful” creeps in. What if nobody buys my art? What if people don’t think I’m good? What if I don’t make money off of this? What if I don’t become famous or get the recognition I deserve? I’m sure we’ve all thought that. It’s scary, especially in our modern day where everything is up for the world to see online.

But maybe that’s not the point. Maybe I don’t care if I don’t get famous or get the recognition I deserve, or if people think my art is good or not. Maybe what matters is that I enjoy making my art, that it is challenging but because it is a field of growth and evolution. Maybe what matters is that I love writing and thinking my writing isn’t perfect, and I get to decide if I wanna share it to the world or not. Maybe what matters is that I feel this immense joy when I am drawing and painting and putting pictures together on my scrapbook, and I am amazed to see the ideas in my head be brought into life. Maybe it doesn’t matter that I don’t book every audition I submit for because transforming into a different version of myself everytime I read a script makes me feel so alive. Maybe what matters is that when I finish a project, it isn’t about how “wow, I get to share it the world and they will tell me I’m good”, but about how “wow, I get to share this with the world and I have been honest about who I am, and maybe someone will like it and someone will relate, and they will also be inspired to share their world”. Maybe what matters is how fun it felt when I would sing and dance on stage when I was 8, when I didn’t care if I would win or not because that isn’t the point. Maybe what matters is how free I felt when I started creating art that helped me uncover different versions of myself, and that it helped me heal parts of myself I didn’t even realize needed healing. Maybe what matters is that I keep creating in every possible way, even when I don’t share it with anyone. Maybe what matters is the joy of the process, not the validation of the finish line. Maybe what matters is that when I am creating, it is the closest I feel to the embodiment of love. Maybe what matters is that creation no longer feels like a performance—a mask to produce—but a ritual, a way of life.

And maybe, I am my most important audience.