Date: April 22, 2025
Author: Eliana Mercer
I’m 14. Almost 15. I’ve taught myself how to play two instruments and I’m working on a third. I’ve been drawing for about six years and can handle most styles—cartoon, realism, digital, traditional. Lately, I’ve been dipping into writing more seriously too. So, I’m doing the thing, right?
But here’s where I get stuck: I still don’t feel like I deserve to call myself an artist.
It’s like there’s this voice in my head that says unless I’m some kind of prodigy—unless I’m reinventing the wheel or reaching DaVinci or Beethoven levels of greatness—I’m just faking it. Like calling myself an artist would be arrogant. Like I haven’t earned that title yet.
And I know how ridiculous that sounds. Logically, I know. I know art isn’t about being the best or having a degree or being famous. It’s about creating something that didn’t exist before. It’s about expressing what’s inside in a way words sometimes can’t manage on their own.
But emotionally? It’s harder.
Maybe part of it is growing up in a world where everyone’s work is on display 24/7. Where you can scroll through a dozen masterpieces before breakfast and feel like you’ll never catch up. And maybe part of it is just being this age—stuck between feeling too young to be taken seriously and too old to not care.
Still, I keep going. I play. I draw. I write. I experiment. I create. Not because I think I’m a genius or some once-in-a-generation mind—but because it feels right. Because something inside me lights up when I make something new.
So maybe that’s what makes me an artist.
Not the titles. Not the training. Not the comparisons. Just the act of doing it, again and again, even when my brain tries to tell me I’m not good enough.
If you’re out there struggling with this too—whatever your age—maybe this is your reminder: if you create, you’re a creator. If you make art, you’re an artist. You don’t need permission.
You already are.
