Creativity and Right Environment
I meet with D, a new one-on-one client. A neurodivergent writer, D is incredibly funny, deeply experimental in her poetics, and rebuilding her confidence after some difficult academic years.
A few weeks in, she mentions not liking creative constraints—exercises, prompts, and other structured entry points meant to help us get started, but which, to her, have always felt like little obligatory traps. Frankly, she hates them—and not in a, these aren’t my favorite kind of way, but in a deep, somatic way. A recoiling. The kind of disinterest that has history in it.
The more we talked, the clearer it became that her past experiences hadn’t been neutral. Her only exposure to working with constraints had been in high-pressure academic environments, where time and choice were limited, and the stakes—spoken or otherwise—felt incredibly high. The implied goal was never curiosity; it was correctness. Generating work wasn’t creative. It was performative.
I hadn’t fully understood this when, near the start of our container, I shared a weird collection of prompt-poems with her. “Try these out,” I said, “I think you’ll really like them.”
…And she did.
~~~
Like so many writers I meet, D intentionally turned away from academia, leaving behind a slew of negative associations—and a fair number of practices that reminded her of that limiting space.
She was genuinely surprised to find herself inspired by the prompts I’d shared, which felt so different than the ones she’d encountered before. “How strange,” she commented aloud, wondering what had shifted about her preferences or capabilities.
Yet here’s the thing: In certain environments, constraints become obligations. Invitations turn into shrink wrap wrapped around your creative body, forcing you to acclimate to the space and expectations surrounding you.
These are what we might call, wrong environments.
But in the right environment? Those same creative constraints, the ones my client couldn’t stand, became supportive containers. Warm invitations. Ways of entering a rhythm that don’t feel controlling, but fruitful.
As sensitive artists, divergent writers, and tender-hearted creative souls: How many things have we decided “aren’t for us,” when in reality we’ve just only encountered them in the wrong environment?
How often do we rule something out not because it’s inherently incompatible with us, but because we first met it in a context that didn’t feel fair, spacious, or safe?
~~~
Leave it to me to bring everything back to plant metaphors: We wouldn’t judge a cactus for failing to thrive in a swamp. We wouldn’t call a fern difficult because it shrivels under direct sunlight. But we do this to ourselves—especially those of us with sensitive systems and a history of self-doubt. We assume we’re “bad” at structure, or “not good” at experimentation. We internalize a dislike for drafting, or revision, or feedback, when maybe we’ve just never had a chance to approach it on our real terms.
~~~
One of the most important parts of reclaiming your creative life involves asking:
What do I know about what actually works for me?
And then, just as crucially:
What am I only telling myself based on a context I’ve outgrown?
Sometimes, our resistance isn’t really about the thing—it’s about the context in which we first encountered the thing. It’s about prior negative experiences inside systems that misunderstood us, flattening us into something smaller than what we really are.
And those systems can be sticky. They leave residue, shaping our self-perception long after we’ve left them.
It takes work, time, and tenderness to unflatten our hearts and remember the larger shape of who and what we really are.
But with support and experimentation, we may re-encounter the tools of our craft in new ways. We may decide what actually belongs to us, based on the kind of artist we really are.
What I want you to know today:
Your relationship to a particular creative strategy, tool, or way of working does not have to be fixed. If something once felt constraining, it might feel different when approached with softness, trust, or through the gentle support of creative mentorship.
No matter the circumstances, I promise you: You are not difficult or broken or bad at being creative.
You might just be a fern in need of shade. Or a cactus asking for less water.
Or a wildly capable artist in need of a room that sees and acknowledges the real you.
A room where you belong.
