It’s a beautiful spring morning here in the Chicago suburbs. I woke up earlier than usual because my seasonal allergies were bothering me. As I was enjoying my breakfast of yogurt and a green juice, I contemplated what I wanted to do today. One of my goals lately has been to have more play time in my studio. And it’s not going very well.

No matter how hard I try, I always seem to have a laundry list of “serious” things to work on. Like posting a print to my shop, or shipping orders, or scanning and editing art. Sometimes my goals are even more lofty, like filming that video I’ve been wanting to post. Or working on my first course.

As I was analyzing my behavior this morning, I had a revelation.

I’m living in a perpetual state of making up for lost time.

And in that mindset, lies the problem. Let me further explain. As some of you may know, I didn’t go to art school. I made a lot of art in high school. Then, I studied communications in college. After that, I spent a year studying design in Chicago. I landed a job as a corporate graphic designer, which is where I stayed for four years. Between the time I left high school at age 18, to the time I quit my corporate job at age 27 to freelance, I made very little art. And I’m really tough on myself about this. While some days I can get behind the idea that everything happens for a reason, it’s tough not to think about how much I could have learned in this time. And I think I’ve been punishing myself ever since.

Since I started freelancing, I’ve never stopped hustling to move my art forward. I have lofty goals, so I don’t have the luxury of time. When I see artists “wasting time” in their sketchbooks online, I’m envious. I wish I could relax into my art like that. And maybe I can, now that I’ve realized where my hustle mentality is coming from. Maybe I can forgive myself for that all time I lost with my art, and finally accept that it was a necessary part of my journey. At the very least, maybe I can see that I’ve paid my dues with all these years of hustle.

I wanted to talk about this today, because I suspect many of you may feel this way too, whether you’re aware of it or not. Many of us have a rich history with art as small children, because society supports that. Art is taught in elementary school classes all over the world. Then, once we get to a certain age, society doesn’t exactly put an art career on a pedestal. Many of us pursue a “more practical” career path and end up getting back into art when we’re financially stable. Which is usually much later in life. Therefore, we always feel behind as artists. Like we haven’t given enough time or commitment to the thing we love most.

And I wonder if that feeling of always being behind is what’s holding us back from making our best work.

The art practice itself has an innate stillness to it. When I think about an artist making great art, I think about them sitting outside, enjoying a sunny day. Maybe spending all day to get a painting just right. In my mind, it’s a peaceful, slow existence. This is how I picture all the greats working. But this isn’t how I work. My day has an urgency to it. But is that serving me? And more importantly, is it serving my art?

What would I discover in my work if I could stop rushing? If I could see I have all the time in the world to make my art? If I could accept where I am right now enough to really pay attention? I suspect magical things would start to happen. I suspect I could achieve that looseness in my art that I lost long ago. Long term, I’m pretty sure I’d grow into a better artist. And I’d be happier on a daily basis. I could do without all the pressure I put on myself to constantly grow a successful art business. I could turn my focus to the art itself.

I realize change isn’t going to happen overnight, but this felt like the big moment of clarity I was looking for. Today, I’m going to gift myself an entire day of wasted time with my art - just me and my sketchbook. I envision paper scraps and paint swatches flying all over the place, as my music hums in the background.

One day at a time, right? It’s not even 10 am yet, so my art is my oyster.