When no ones watching

In a world where everything is content, it’s getting harder to tell the difference between genuine creativity and the performance of creativity. We live in a culture that rewards visibility over process—where making something isn’t always enough unless it’s shared, seen, validated. It’s no longer just what we’re creating, but how it looks while we’re doing it. And somewhere in the middle of all that, a strange question starts to creep in: are we creating because we feel called to, or because we want to be perceived as the kind of person who does?

There’s a certain performance built into our world now, especially if you work in a creative field. Every idea becomes a post. Every sketch becomes content. Every moment of inspiration feels like it should be documented, filtered, and captioned. It’s easy to start conflating the act of doing the work with the image of doing the work.

And for me, someone who’s built a life around fashion, brand identity, storytelling—it gets blurry. I like curating things. I like being seen. I like crafting a visual language that communicates who I am. But at what point does that start to shape the work more than the work

We all know the archetype. The thoughtful creative. The one whose photo dumps feel effortlessly random but are, in fact, meticulously edited in lightroom to be the perfect mix of artistic and chaotic. The one who “lives in the moment” but somehow always finds the perfect lighting. They’re always creating—writing, designing, styling—usually while sipping an oat milk flat white from a coffee shop they picked because the chairs matched their outfit (guilty). They seem like they’re floating through life on instinct, but behind the scenes they’re overthinking everything—every DM, every outfit, every pitch email they’ve rewritten five times and still haven’t sent. They make it look easy, but they’re operating at a level of mental chess most people would pay to opt out of. And the kicker? A lot of us—including me—are this person. Or at least some version of them.

And of course, the irony isn’t lost on me that I’m writing all of this and then immediately posting it to Substack. Which, let’s be honest, kind of answers the question. If this were truly just for me, maybe it would’ve stayed in the Notes app or lived as an voicenote to my friend. But no—I’m sharing it. Publicly. With a title and a subtitle and a picture I spent 30 minutes finding. So yes, clearly, some part of me wants to be perceived as thoughtful and creative and “the kind of person who has these kinds of thoughts.” I want it to be known. I want to be known for it. But maybe owning that makes it feel less performative and more... honest?