Process, Pressure, and Presence

There’s an ache, a restless whisper, an undeniable pull—the need to create. It calls to us in quiet moments, nudging, insisting. And yet, when we reach for it, when we try to shape it into something tangible, it flutters just beyond our grasp.

Why is it that the very thing we long to express so often gets stuck inside us?

I spoke about this last week—about how the relentless drive for productivity strangles creativity before it can even take its first breath. Creativity does not thrive under the weight of output demands; it recoils from the machinery of industrialism, from the factory-line mindset that insists on results.

But I am not an advocate for retreating into solitude, for hiding in a cave and never daring to share. No, I believe in offering our gifts to the world. And yet, paradoxically, I find that this very need for visibility, for validation, can become its own kind of cage.

In my coaching work, I hear it again and again: the artist searching for the perfect idea, the creator paralysed by the fear of exposure. They hesitate at the edge of their work, worried about judgment, measuring themselves against others. But both of these fears—perfectionism and the compulsion to be seen—lie at opposite ends of the creative spectrum.

If creativity followed a linear path (though, of course, it rarely does), it would move through three stages: first, reflection—the quiet birthing of ideas, contemplation, the deep inhale before the leap. Then, action—the messy, playful, unpredictable middle where we tinker, experiment, stumble, and find our way. And finally, sharing—stepping into the light, offering our work to an audience, letting it live beyond us.

Most creative blocks emerge at the edges: at the beginning, where doubt and perfectionism whisper, "Not good enough," or at the end, where fear of rejection looms, demanding, "Will this matter? Will I be seen?" Often, creatives become stuck before they even begin. They hover in endless idea generation, rejecting every spark before it has a chance to ignite, already worrying about how it will be received. Their inner critic hijacks the process, leaving them paralysed in a loop of self-doubt.

Others become lost in the final stage, obsessing over visibility, over how their work will be perceived. They measure themselves against others, seeking validation, comparing, craving recognition. And here, ego takes the wheel—in two disguises: scarcity (“I am not good enough, this will never measure up”) or grandiosity (“This must be groundbreaking, it must change the world”). But as soon as ego takes over, the result is the same: either the work is forced and hollow, or it never gets made at all.

So what do we do when we find ourselves stuck in either of these places?

First, we recognise where we are. Which part of us is speaking? Who is hijacking the process? Then, we shift focus—to process. To the act of making itself.

Because process is everything. It is the reason we create at all. Yes, we long to connect, to inspire, to share something meaningful—but how can we offer anything if we cannot first relate to ourselves? The act of creating is, at its heart, an engagement with the self. A quiet unraveling, an excavation, a conversation with the unknown parts of us. Creativity is not just about expression—it is about listening, about discovering what wants to be revealed. It is about becoming.

And isn’t it ironic that in order to express, we must first turn inward? And isn’t it terrifying that this takes time—real, slow, uncertain time? 

The inner voice is quiet and uncertain. Of course, you can’t know if an idea will work, if research will be revealing, or if a show will receive ovations—because you are still in the making. Quite honestly, you are in partnership with an idea, and you must give it your time. Nurturing an idea is like nurturing a child—you can’t constrain it too much. You must be present, listen, stay near, and spend time with it. Sometimes, you guide it, show it the path, and play with it. Other times, you refine it, rein it in, and bring it back. But ultimately, the idea leads, and you are more of a facilitator than an owner.

I wish it were easier to stay with ideas, thoughts, and sketches—to help them unravel, to play with them, and to let them be. Because if we did, we would be so much more purposeful, intentional, and present, finding the joy and liberation we constantly seek. The biggest problem is not just mindset, though—it is boldness and courage to take action and fail.

I must confess, this very piece took effort to write. I resisted. I doubted. And even now, I do not know if there is anything of value in it. Perhaps it is rambling, too long, too indulgent. Perhaps no one will read it.

But that is not why I write. Not for validation. Not for clients. Not for followers. I write to unravel my own practice. To rehearse. To find myself in the act of doing. To reflect on the days that pass, to weave together the images and stories of those I work with, to make sense of their lives, and in doing so, to make sense of my own.
And that, I suppose, is why I create. Again and again. And you?