I don’t want to be dramatic (much) but when I tried to optimise and monetise my creative output beyond my natural capacity, it wrecked my creative expression for a long time. That led to burnout that took two years to recover from.

Here’s the part I find harder to admit because it feels icky. I chose that path out of greed. I wanted more money, more attention, more people clamouring for my time and the elusive feeling that people wanted “access to me”. I also wanted the thrill of limiting that access; to be so in demand as a creative that I could turn people away. I wanted a full inbox, a full calendar and the ability to join the tables where successful people swap tips on setting boundaries with the pesky general public. I wanted to be able to say “Pick my brain, huh? — Yes I have a £1,200 an hour service for that” and actually mean it. I wanted more.

There was a time when I got close, I was running a moderately successful creative business, I had a successful online shop, I was stocking Selfridges with my art, I’d been featured in Vogue, but I felt like something was missing. I wanted to be in demand in the way I imagined other artists to be in demand. I was hungry for popularity. In retrospect that probably dates back to my childhood.

In around 2019 began actively seeking out coaches and mentors who embodied this restless hunger. I’d hired them precisely to push me past my own hesitation. So when the work began feeling misaligned and stressful, and they kept pushing, they were doing exactly what I’d paid for. My ensuing anger at them was really anger at myself. The money oriented language “100k months” and “10x your revenue” wasn’t new either, and on some level I found it attractive. The gurus I sought out were towing that golden line, and towing it hard. When it started to feel nauseating, I was the one whose appetite had changed, but I didn’t have the courage yet to say so. What unfolded was a further two years of me guzzling from the generic business marketing trough until it felt suffocating, boring, frustrating, and worst of all… it felt like a Job with a capital J.

I wanted to feel like an artist, not an employee but I’d ignored that instinct for so long that I felt utterly trapped. There was financial pressure at play too: a growing family, a team, pressure to be the sole breadwinner. Worried that I wouldn’t be able to afford to keep paying for coaching, I started coaching emergent artists on how to get visible. I’d entered the pyramid to be able to afford the pyramid. The long Zoom calls, fancy mastermind retreats and endless talk of making a million were enticing. The dopamine hit of having my voice messages responded to by someone I admired was addictive.

In one of the more absurd moments in the story, I was embarrassed to tell the mastermind group I’d joined that I’d only made £370,000 that year because everyone else seemed to be talking about aiming for millions. In hindsight it’s clear to me that I was failing to celebrate what I had. Again, that was on me.

From a distance it’s easy to see that if there’s a nagging voice telling you to grab for more, it might be because you’re neglecting what’s already available to you. In my case it was my creative practice. Eventually the pedestals I’d foolishly built came down. I had to completely step away from self-improvement to finally improve my life and reconnect with my own creativity.

Even as I write this, my mind throws up a dozen caveats about my deep admiration for everyone who’s helped me on my way. A fear of being misunderstood and misconstrued isn’t the only reason for this; the admiration is real. They were genuinely good at helping business people, including me. I went from making about £1500 a month selling my art to running a membership with over 100 people in it, and coaching over 3000 artists in 4 years, all while having a second baby. But not one of my coaches had a creative practice. They excelled at running businesses that taught people how to run businesses— that isn’t the same as knowing what it takes to be an artist.

Looking back I did well, I have a lot of compassion for that version of me. I also remember being told time and time again that I wasn’t “going all in”. Every time I’d pushed back against the business advice I received, I’d been told it was “just resistance”— that I needed to love myself more, put more skin in the game and focus on growth, but here’s what I’ve learned since, and it’s something I now remind my small number of mentoring clients:

What if resistance isn’t a mindset issue you should fix? What if it’s an essential artist’s material guiding you towards alignment? What if that powerful resistance creates a kind of latent tension— like an archer pulling back an arrow, to be released with a potent force at the right moment? In other words: what if your resistance is useful?

I understand that not all arrows land where we want them to, but no coach, no mentor, no expert can know your alignment more deeply than you can. Mistaking your own deeper knowing for ‘bad resistance” is easy to do in a society that celebrates using force to mold the world around us. In her series of spoken word stories “The Power of The Crone”, Dr Clarissa Pinkola Estés tells stories of trees that can’t be tamed with ropes and brute force. No matter what the farmer does to hold down the branches, they break free towards the sun. “Don’t cast out your demons,” she cautions. “They might be the best part of you.”

I suspect that often your resistance is right. Your resistance is a primal warning, a sacred f*cking message, a portent that you ignore at your peril. Ignore it and pretty soon your body is yelling “f*ck around and find out!” The constant aches and pains, minor infections, hunched shoulders, headaches, all conspiring to get you to wake the f*ck up and trust yourself.

These days I listen to my resistance like it’s a sacred oracle, and encourage my mentees to do the same. That doesn’t mean I follow its instructions to the letter: resistance, intuition and fear are sometimes hard to tell apart. But if I stop and really listen, the way we listen to a piece of music we love, over and over, I start to decipher something else: the truth of things. When I take time to create without expectation, without a remit, for the art and the joy of it, I start to hear the beat of my own creative drum. Those beats lead me forwards. They led me directly to a place where I knew without hesitation that running a large scale coaching business was not for me. They led me to understand that my creative practices come first. My big missions like Creative Oxygen, a consultancy helping healthcare teams bring back creativity, are a result of that creative energy— not the other way around. I’ve also accepted that it’s ok for me to share my mentoring knowledge and experience with a small circle of people. I don’t have to scale to millions. I can do what I love by doing deep work with a small number of people. If that grows organically, then that’s wonderful, but I’m not going to destroy myself in the process.

I’m an artist and polymath, I need time and space. When it comes to my multitude of creative practices from drawing to painting, writing, sculpting and filmmaking, I can just make stuff and let it be. I can make art that never gets exhibited or published. I can write stories that only a handful of people read. I can hold an event for 7 people. I doesn’t mean I’ve failed.

I hope this helps you to trust your own creativity. When you don’t want to scale or monetise part of your creative expression, you aren’t always “in resistance because of fear”. Sometimes your soul just doesn’t want to turn something small and beautiful into something big and loud. Sometimes you are not ready to be observed. And that’s ok. When you have an instinct that you’re giving away too much creative energy to the wrong thing, you’re right. Pull back.

A truly magical thing happens when you start trusting your creative intelligence. If you beat your drum truthfully, your people will hear it, and if you’re consistent some of them will show up bearing gifts. Maybe not as many as you think you want right now, but give it time. Mostly that means gradually growing a relationship with paying and non-paying collaborators, people who are really, really listening.

If you’re an artist or creative visionary, take what you want from this. Knowing what you don’t want is just as important as knowing what you do want. Trust it.

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Sometimes I want to shout at people on the internet.

I feel trapped by other people’s inability to see my point of view— don’t we all? I’ve read books about compassionate, curious communication in the age of polarisation, but the temptation to yell in CAPITAL LETTERS is still there. As a friend recently said, “cunts abound”. Still, it doesn’t do any good just ranting at people, even in the name of activism.

Lazy activism kills creativity.

In around 2019, self-identifying as an activist became a huge trend. The mode of delivery was often public shaming and reputational damage aimed at people and brands on social media.

By 2020- 2021, we witnessed rampant emotional instability dressed up as "activism" all over social media. The mob was bored, locked down, and lapping up drama. If somebody forgot to answer your email, they must be racist. If somebody declined your Zoom call invitation, they must be anti-your-identity. If somebody didn't commission your TV show, they must be a misogynist. If somebody had a similar book idea to yours, they must be a privileged, self-serving thief who disrespects your entire bloodline. Name and shame culture made private grudges into a profitable industry. Meta and Twitter must have loved it; more comments mean more advertising profit. Nothing encourages commenting like drama and disagreement; polarisation pays.

Attention is currency.

In 2020, I saw a popular online influencer publicly tear down a self-employed events organiser, accusing her of “disrespect” and racism when a series of collaborative emails were missed. Did the influencer bother to find out why some emails went unanswered? No. Was the racism overt, implied, or assumed? Was it a microaggression, a series of such, or something else? Nobody knows because no details were ever given. Nevertheless, a strategic campaign to destroy one woman's reputation ensued.

Behind the scenes, one huge detail was omitted by both parties: the woman who was being accused of disrespectfully ignoring emails (and being a racist) had just lost her mother. Yes, her Mum had just died, and she didn’t reply to her emails or set an out-of-office message.

As with so many online witch hunts, there was never any detailed substance to the accusations beyond “it felt disrespectful”. How often have we seen this? A rallying cry for justice cosigned by.…erm..…somebody’s feelings. In this case, the lack of depth, detail, or facts was compensated for with a honed strategy akin to the average book launch.

The take-down consisted of multiple "call-outs" on Instagram, complete with carousel posts of up to 10 slides, detailing the crimes of the “accused”. There was even a “CANCEL *their name* ” logo— I am not making this up. Daily livestreams kept viewers abreast of the audacious lack of response to said emails.

When the fever pitch seemed to be dwindling, the accused, fresh from her mother’s funeral, supplied fresh drama in the form of The Panicked Apology. Screenshots followed of both the apology and the rejection. This lead to a runaway train effect as the whole thing gathered momentum again. What the accused is meant to do at this point is unclear, but presumably they must suffer as much as possible according to the law of the witch-hunt.*

*It’s worth noting that in a serious online witch-hunt, the apology must be treated as a key plot point— and it must always be rejected. Nobody earns higher engagement by accepting an apology. The mob, reducing itself to children by participating, also wants the apology to be rejected. A sense of false intimacy around a common enemy is part of the game. Everyone must bay for blood. The show must go on, and the algorithm wants to be fed.

The most harrowing thing I witnessed during that terrible take-down was well-meaning but ultimately bungling white people scrambling to comment and discredit one woman. What made it surreal was that I knew many of them personally. I saw a local handbag designer call the accused a “vile person” on Instagram. I saw clients publicly announcing that they were no longer working with her. Worst of all, I saw her hairdresser pile in with “I always thought she was a bitch”. Imagine being cancelled by your hairdresser! Such intimate betrayal. People are beyond brutal when they feel invested in a take-down.

The net result of this "cancelling" reads like a tragic shopping list: Two unhappy women (who still hadn't had a conversation), one business in tatters, one influencer with plenty of engagement but no actual resolution, scores of brands running scared from both parties, and worst of all, thousands of fans who participated in the mob—dimly aware that they could be next. Public take-downs leave a mark by reminding us not to step out of line socially or creatively. What do you think that does to a person's creativity?

When we participate in publicly shaming somebody else, we send our creativity into hiding.

Cancel culture happens when we conflate personal success with collective liberation and exploit that confusion for our own gain. Through characterising ourselves as victims of shared injustice, we’re able to convince other people that joining the mob helps to achieve justice and freedom for everyone. Guess what else happens when we conflate personal success with collective liberation? Greed, exploitation, a grandiose sense of self-importance, and unhelpful hubris. It’s a heady cocktail; we lose our capacity to notice that we’re part of the problem. A common enemy and sense of false intimacy can be addictive and create the illusion of safety in numbers. But we become meaner, stupider, lazier, greedier, and worst of all, less creative.

We’re still living in the long shadow of 2020 cancel culture. We might not be active participants, but our creativity is still licking its wounds. I lament the stories that haven’t been told, the books that haven’t been written, the art that hasn’t been made— not because of a lack of resources or time, but because creativity is still hiding.

Everything we put out into the world makes a mark on it. If that mark is destined to curtail expression and creativity, could there be another way to deliver the message? Can we turn our frustration into something more meaningful than public humiliation? Can we craft something with more longevity? More soul?

I think we can.

Perhaps the answer is to make more art. If not for the world, then for ourselves.

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When I’m as tired as I am today it feels like my bones are full of sand. It’s the kind of tiredness where I need to drag myself over the starting line of every small task. Never mind the finish line. It’s the kind of tiredness that makes my teeth itch. I could blame perimenopause- But going to bed too late isn’t helping either.

The sneaky thing about my mind and body is that they will keep me up until the small hours, even if I have the ability to go to bed sooner. Perimenopause seems to come with extra adrenalin at bedtime; Yay, fun times. I’ll just be drifting off to sleep and then, BOOM!, someone will cough or snore in the next room, and my heart will be pounding, my body will be on high-alert and I’ll be on my feet ready to fight danger. Cue checking the kids to make sure they are still alive/ asleep/ not too hot/ not too cold. My brain knows that this is absurd, but my body is ready to fight fires. Figurative or literal.

My brain, presumably to get revenge on my body for this disruption, will then drag up all the ways I’ve failed today, yesterday, back in 2010, and in adolescence. Picture a Super 8 film on a loop, cutting between times I failed to seize a business opportunity because I didn’t recognise it, times I was socially awkward or mean, and times I accidentally told my children how I really felt and ended up upsetting them.

Guilty side note: you really can’t win when it comes to parenting. Apparently you’re supposed to be authentic, put your own needs first, but also your children’s needs first, be honest about your emotions, but not overload young people with too much of your emotional stuff. In short you have to cut yourself some slack whilst not letting your slackness negatively impact anyone. Social media makes it feel even more impossible, because if you’re not contact-napping with your baby, having deep honest chats with your teenager, feeding everyone organic seed-oil free food and fresh rested- breastmilk, whilst simultaneously running a seven figure life-coaching brand and looking like a supermodel, who even are you? If that sounds impossible, it’s because it might be. Or maybe not- who knows. I’m too tired to figure it out.

I would prefer to not be tired today. I would prefer to have the headspace to make some really cool art without my mind drifting every 34 seconds. However, I would settle for a nap, and a few minutes doodling in preparation for my next client shoot at the end of the week. I know it’s going to rock despite how I feel today.

Creativity is interesting because it can blossom in adversity OR in peace and freedom. Sometimes I’ve created from a place of necessity- I’ve pushed through and got incredible outcomes. Less often I’ve created from a spacious foundation. That felt more like thriving. I liked it a lot.

Does my creativity require the perfect conditions? No. I can create powerfully in imperfect conditions. Do I still want to improve the conditions? Hell yes! I like to have a nice time when I’m creating. I’m selfish like that.

PS: I’ve switched on comments for the first time on Substack. So let me know if this article resonated.

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I’m a library full of stories but just now I lack the energy to tell them.

Once I trod on a deadly Rinkhals cobra, while my mother looked on in horror- but I’m too tired to tell that story.

Once, the police emptied my schoolbag onto the hot roadside at gunpoint. My pencil case was picked through for reasons of national security, apparently- but I’m too tired to tell that story.

Once I lay on top of a school friend to hide him as we were driven through a race riot. “Asians out” they shouted. “Get down you idiot” I snapped. A Molotov cocktail bounced off the car and smashed stupidly on the tarmac, wasting flame and rage- but I’m too tired to tell that story.

Once I was a ladybird for an instant, or maybe an hour. I had an out of body experience at dawn in the Pyrenees. I was smaller than a coffee bean and bigger than the universe. I recalled having being present for all of eternity- but I’m too tired to tell that story.

Once I worked as a fisherwoman, laying crab pots off the Cornish coast, and eating fresh sashimi for dinner almost every night- but I’m too tired to tell that story.

I’m a hive of creative intentions but today I lack the energy to lift a pencil.

The book remains unfinished. The documentary un-shot. The paintings in my head, unpainted; angering, pacing their cages, raging to be released.

If I don’t paint them soon someone else will.

But where will I find the energy? In amongst the mothering, and bothering, and blundering. So here I am making a list of the stories I can’t yet muster . A rough marker in the ground.

I’ve pruned away so much- commitments, business contracts, group chats. Poof! Gone. And now I’m lying fallow, waiting for roots and fungi to interlace into something new.

I don’t like it here but I’m sure it’s part of the story.

If you're in this space too, burnt out like last night’s fire pit, a stark black hole in daylight, wintering in spring, I see you. Are you writing lists?

Are you?

I don’t need inspirational quotes on the fridge. I don’t need anyone to give me feedback on my work. I don’t even need someone to go out to work and earn money.

I just need the dishes done. The wet towel picked up off the bed. The pile of parking receipts and junk-mail that’s been sitting on the kitchen counter for two weeks to disappear.

I know that I’m responsible for my own feelings- but also “Tidy the f*ck up!”. The overwhelm of seeing other people’s mess, and feeling like I’m the only one who cares how that affects the energy of the space, can be a creativity killer.

The creative part of me starts to shut down when the rest of me feels like a human bin.

It’s not even the mess itself, half the time. It’s the meaning of it. The low-level reminder that I’m expected to handle it all because I’m the one who notices. The curse of noticing details is true gift to an artist, we rely on that sensitivity. But it’s also incredibly tiring, especially when other people around us don’t notice their own mess.

I know people love to talk about “embracing the chaos,” and “inspiration through mess,” and yes, I get it. That can be true. Sometimes. But there’s a limit.

There’s creative mess, and then there’s rage-inducing domestic mess; the lovechild of traditional gender roles and too much time spent doing more interesting things on the internet. I get it, watching the football or playing Animal Crossing is more exciting than picking pubes out of the bathtub. But I’d rather it wasn’t primarily at my expense. Please and Thanks.

The way we see romanticised creative mess represented on social media or in films is funny. A single paint covered rag on the floor of the studio, a messy desk bathed in buttery afternoon light, pretty books spilling onto the rug, a ruffled pure white duvet; undone and crumpled- just enough- as if a movie star tumbled out of bed, and the maid hasn’t arrived yet.

On Instagram there’s no shortage of artists and writers in their twenties and thirties showing us romantic loft-in-Berlin type lifestyles- complete with art mess. But I’m not in a loft in Berlin. I’m in a flat in Hove with a family and a bin that somehow always smells weird.

I see a lot of inspirational content for artists and writers reminding us of what we DON’T NEED in order to create. Pretty handwritten notes and Post-Its, artfully photographed declaring things like:

“You don’t need a tidy home to make art”

You don’t need a room of your own to create”

“You don’t need a clear space to create”

I get it. The 20-something, pre-child me would have been high-fiving that thought and declaring “You go girl”. I was not yet bogged down by the reality of holding the mental and domestic load for multiple humans. I had not yet developed the urge to lock myself in a room so that nobody can hand me a banana skin or a crisp packet to get rid of.

The current version of me is done with the endurance sport of trying to be as low maintenance as possible. I am no longer available for it.

I’m embracing what I want. Not just the bare minimum of what I need.

I want a clear surface to make clear work. I want to walk into the kitchen and find it how I left it. And honestly, I think it’s okay to say that.

I don’t need my environment to be perfect. I just need it not to feel like I’m living in a group art installation called “Mum Will Sort It Out.”

This is a gentle plea.
If you love a creative person, do them a solid. Tidy the f*ck up after yourself- without expecting a medal for doing it.

Ali