I just realized, through Morning Pages in The Artist’s Way workshop by Julia Cameron, just how deeply the need for approval and validation runs through my past and spirit. It’s resonating strongly within me right now, echoing through many of the things I do—and possibly explaining why I feel creatively blocked, or why there is such a significant wall to break through. 

Luckily, I have the Holy Spirit working alongside me (and through me) to help me understand and unpack this discovery as I go. 

I believe its roots trace back to childhood, as so many things do for me. Sadly, much of my memory—and that of my late mother—is blocked due to trauma. My mind has hidden many memories of my mom and certain events to protect me from pain. Still, in all the work I’ve done on myself, I don’t recall my mom ever celebrating my drawings or putting them on display. I can only guess that she might have, but I have no proof. And proof is important to me—something that says a lot, considering I thoroughly love Bigfoot and other cryptids. 

I clearly remember going to the one vaguely artsy-crafty store in my small farming town in Ontario, Canada, one Saturday with one of my parents. I bought materials to make a sticker book and started collecting. It just so happened to be my dad’s 40th birthday—or at least I’ve always assumed it was—and the house was being prepared for a celebration. Our beloved basement, with its awesome green, furry, very-70s sofa and matching loveseat, was being set up for the party. 

I remember working on this handmade book and then placing it somewhere I thought was safe before foolishly going to bed. 

The next morning, I searched feverishly for it, growing more frustrated and panicked by the minute, until the heartbreaking realization hit me: Mom must have thrown it out. 

All that hard work—just gone. 

When I take myself back to that moment, I can still remember the sensation and the headspace I was in. My mom was the center of my world in those years, the glue that held our entire family together. To have something I had just created accidentally tossed away left a mark on my little heart. 

I grew up feeling somewhat left out and forgotten because there wasn’t much happening in our town that catered to a tween artist—especially with a truck-driving dad who, in 1991, was suddenly left to raise two very different girls. I vaguely remember feeling responsible for stepping back so I wouldn’t pull my poor dad in two directions. My younger sister was deeply involved in figure skating, and I knew Dad couldn’t be in two places at once. The town we lived in simply didn’t offer opportunities for a young artist. 

I remember feeling both alarmed and shocked when my dad arranged oil painting lessons with an older man who had a family. I wish I hadn’t backed out of it, but I likely felt uncomfortable around him. At the time, I didn’t understand that unfamiliar older men could trigger something in me—a lingering effect of childhood sexual abuse. 

Through high school, I participated heavily in art classes, even taking the class twice in my final year. I loved art club and painting murals on the school walls. Still, I remember the comparisons, the judging, and the hurt feelings when my pieces didn’t seem as good as those of other students who received so much praise. Even so, I filled sketchbooks easily and received great marks. 

When I graduated from college in 1997 with my diploma in Creative Arts & Design, the blow came when there wasn’t much celebration or recognition. Oh, the hurt of that moment—watching other students’ families celebrate them so excitedly and warmly. 

Then came the massive turn of events afterward. I was so naïve and ignorant back then. 

It felt like no big deal to anyone else. 

I still remember the time my dad told me, “Your head is in the clouds,” when I was a teenager. No one else remembers it, but I do. 

When I started knitting, the response was usually polite appreciation when someone received a handmade item, only for me to never see it again. My sister says she doesn’t like the way knitting feels. Still, I press on. 

This past Christmas, my parents received a big stack of knitted dishcloths and hand towels from me. I honestly didn’t care whether they liked them or not. I made them something practical that took time, money, and care—because practical gifts matter to me. 

I rarely show my handmade items to my family. I certainly don’t show them anything I’ve written, including creativemodifications.ca. Instead, I foolishly hope friends will comment on or “like” the things I share online. When they don’t, I feel disappointed when a post isn’t well-received. 

And that realization hurts. 

The fact that I still do this after all these years bugs me. It means I’m placing my hope, faith, and belief in people who, honestly, aren’t entitled to that power. 

It’s my power. 

My power to decide what I create and why. 

I’m beginning to understand, even just in this past week of the workshop and through the practice of Morning Pages, that I’ve been deeply wrong—and deeply hurt. I feel like I need to take that power back and truly own it. I want to create it because I like it and love it, not because I’m trying to earn my dad’s approval or “make it” to feel accepted in his eyes or the rest of my family. 

I don’t want to keep feeling like a failure. I want to feel seen and accepted—to know that I’ve made something meaningful out of my life beyond the deep hurts and losses I’ve experienced. 

That’s the thinking I need to change. 

God has me back here in this strange “wait and see” phase for a reason. I may not understand His plan or be able to predict it, but I know from experience that He has me. He accepts me, loves me, and celebrates my accomplishments. In His eyes, I am making it. I like to imagine the angels enjoying and celebrating the creations I make with the skills and talents He has given me. 

I keep asking Him why—why He gave me all these skills if I’m not “successful” in the way the world measures success. Yet His Spirit, along with my best friend, gently reminds me that I actually have pretty good things. Considering all the “what could be” situations in society and cities today, I really am making it. 

Sometimes I joke that my warranty must be running out, but by God’s grace and mercy, I’m okay. I’m not sick. I’m not broken beyond repair. 

For that reason, I need to focus on the good—on what’s around me—rather than constantly comparing myself to other writers and artists whose lives and stories are completely different from my own. 

I make a word vow here and now to change my thinking and the way I look at things. There’s no deadline attached to turning fifty later this year. 

I will use what God has given me in the best ways I can. I’ll continue to make people laugh, encourage them to think outside the box, and follow the curiosity that pulls me toward different ideas and creations. I’ll keep putting my work out there because I genuinely enjoy this—typing on a keyboard, scribbling in a notebook, brain-dumping my thoughts and prayers until I reach those three pages. 

I know I can do it. 

Because He is in me. 

And He loves me.