I was sitting in a coffee shop the other day—one of those places with the exposed brick and the Edison bulbs that seem to be everywhere now—and I looked around at the people sitting near me. Every single person had a laptop open, a neutral-toned sweater on, and a vaguely focused expression. It struck me, quite suddenly, how much we all tend to gravitate toward the same aesthetic, the same habits, and honestly, the same way of talking. It’s like there’s this invisible manual we’re all reading that tells us how to be a “functional, creative person” in the 21st century. And I’ll be honest, it’s exhausting.
I’ve spent the better part of the last decade trying to “find my voice.” That’s the phrase people use, right? Like it’s a set of keys you dropped behind the radiator. But the more I lean into this journey, the more I realize that finding your voice isn’t about discovery at all. It’s more about excavation. It’s about digging through all the layers of what you *think* you should like, what you’ve been told is “good,” and what you’ve seen work for other people, until you finally hit something that feels a bit raw and uncomfortable. That’s usually where the real stuff lives.
The trap of the “curated” life
We live in an age of curation. I don’t just mean social media, though that’s the obvious culprit. I mean we curate our bookshelves to look a certain way, we curate our opinions based on what our social circles value, and we curate our work to fit into neat little boxes that people can easily understand. It’s a survival mechanism, I think. If people can categorize you, they feel safe. If you fit a niche, you’re marketable.
But the problem with being marketable is that it often requires you to shave off your “weird” edges. And the weird edges are usually the most interesting parts of a person. I remember when I first started writing online, I tried so hard to sound “professional.” I used big words where small ones would do. I avoided personal stories because I thought they were self-indulgent. I wanted to look like an expert. The result? I sounded like a robot. I was so afraid of being seen as an amateur that I ended up being totally forgettable. It took a long time—and a lot of boring articles—to realize that people don’t actually want experts. They want humans.
Anyway, I think we need to be more careful about where we’re getting our “inspiration.” If you’re only looking at what’s currently popular, you’re not getting inspired; you’re just learning how to mimic. It’s like eating the same meal every day and wondering why you’re bored. You have to go outside the algorithm. Read old books. Look at art that confuses you. Talk to people who don’t agree with you. Give your brain something new to chew on.
Why we need to embrace the “ugly” phase
There is this middle part of any creative project—or any personal growth phase, really—that is just inherently ugly. I call it the “messy middle.” It’s that point where the initial excitement has worn off, but you haven’t yet reached the part where everything starts to make sense. In the messy middle, your work looks like a disaster. Your ideas feel half-baked. You feel like a total fraud.
Most people quit here. They think the “ugliness” is a sign that they’re failing. But I’ve come to believe that the ugliness is actually a sign that you’re onto something. It means you’re pushing past the easy, surface-level stuff. When you’re just starting out, everything is an imitation. But when you hit that messy middle, you’re forced to start making your own choices. You have to figure out how *you* want to fix the problem, not how someone else would do it.
I’ve had moments where I’m working on a project—maybe it’s a piece of writing or even just rearranging my living room—and I get so frustrated that I want to scrap the whole thing. But usually, if I just sit with the frustration for an hour (or a day, or a week), something shifts. I stop trying to make it “perfect” and I just try to make it “true.” And “true” is almost always better than “perfect.”
The importance of being bored
This is something I feel quite strongly about: we don’t let ourselves be bored anymore. The second we have a spare moment—waiting for the kettle to boil, standing in line, sitting on the bus—we pull out our phones. We fill every crack in our day with noise. And when you fill your brain with other people’s thoughts 24/7, you don’t leave any room for your own to grow.
Boredom is the soil that creativity grows in. When you’re bored, your mind starts to wander. It starts making weird connections. It starts reflecting on things that happened three years ago. That’s where the “voice” comes from. It comes from the silence. I’ve started trying to leave my phone in the other room for at least an hour a day. It’s surprisingly hard. I feel this physical itch to check it. But once that itch fades, I start to feel a lot more like myself again.
Building your own “taste bank”
One of the best pieces of advice I ever got was to stop worrying about being “original” and start worrying about being “authentic.” Originality is a tall order. Almost everything has been done before in some capacity. But authenticity is different. Authenticity is about your specific perspective—the way you filter the world through your own unique experiences, biases, and joys.
To do this, you have to build your own taste bank. You have to pay attention to what *actually* moves you, not what you think *should* move you. Here are a few ways I’ve been trying to do this lately:
- Keeping a physical notebook: There’s something about the tactile act of writing on paper that changes how you think. I write down snippets of conversation I overhear, colors I like, or even just a weird feeling I had after watching a movie.
- Saying “no” to trends: If everyone is talking about a certain book or show and I’m just not feeling it, I don’t force myself to engage. My time is better spent on things that actually resonate with me.
- Revisiting childhood favorites: What did you love before the world told you what to love? I went back and re-read some of the books I loved when I was twelve, and it was so illuminating. Those core interests are still there, buried under years of “adulting.”
- Taking long walks without headphones: Just listening to the world. It’s amazing what you notice when you’re not listening to a podcast about how to optimize your life.
The fear of being “too much” (or not enough)
I think a lot of us hold back because we’re afraid of being “too much.” Too loud, too emotional, too opinionated, too weird. Or, conversely, we’re afraid of being “not enough.” Not talented enough, not educated enough, not interesting enough. It’s a double-edged sword that keeps us stuck in a state of lukewarm mediocrity.
But here’s the thing: you are never going to be for everyone. If you’re making something—or living a life—that everyone likes, you’re probably playing it way too safe. The things that make you “too much” for some people are the exact things that will make you “just right” for the people who actually matter. It’s better to be a shot of espresso than a gallon of lukewarm water. Not everyone wants the espresso, but the people who do will really, really appreciate it.
I remember a friend telling me once that she was afraid to start her own business because she didn’t have a “polished” brand. I told her that people are sick of polished. We’re drowning in polished. We’re starving for something that feels real, even if it’s a little bit messy. In fact, the mess is often the part that builds the most trust.
It’s a marathon, not a sprint (I know, I know)
I hate cliches as much as the next person, but this one happens to be true. Finding your way, your style, your voice—it takes time. It’s not something that happens in a weekend workshop or after reading one self-help book. It’s a slow, iterative process of trying things, failing, adjusting, and trying again.
There will be days when you feel like you’ve finally figured it out, and then you’ll wake up the next morning and feel like you’re back at square one. That’s normal. It’s not a sign of regression; it’s just the natural rhythm of growth. We don’t grow in a straight line; we grow in circles, slowly expanding our understanding of ourselves and the world around us.
I’ve learned to stop asking “Am I there yet?” and start asking “Am I moving in a direction that feels honest?” As long as the answer to the second question is yes, I’m doing okay. Even if I’m moving slowly. Especially if I’m moving slowly.
Closing thoughts on the quiet journey
I guess what I’m trying to say is that you don’t need to have it all figured out right now. You don’t need to have a “brand” or a “vibe” or a five-year plan. What you need is a little bit of curiosity and a lot of patience. You need to give yourself permission to be bad at things for a while. You need to give yourself permission to change your mind.
In a world that is constantly screaming for your attention and demanding that you produce, produce, produce, the most radical thing you can do is just… be. Be yourself, even the messy parts. Be slow. Be quiet. Listen to that small voice inside you that isn’t influenced by trends or algorithms. It’s there, I promise. You just have to be quiet enough to hear it.
Anyway, that’s what’s been on my mind lately. I don’t have all the answers—far from it—but I’m learning to be okay with the questions. And maybe that’s the whole point of the thing. Just showing up, being honest, and seeing what happens next.