We Don’t Have to Turn Pain Into a Purpose or Pain Doesn’t Have to Be Our Muse

We say that the best artists create from their wounds.

Especially childhood wounds.

The harder your childhood was, the more talented your work is supposed to be.

I wouldn’t say that’s a rule.

Not everyone who comes from a difficult childhood becomes a creator.

But it is true that many creators come from difficult childhoods.

And yet, as a creator, I can say this about myself:

We don’t always create from our childhood trauma or pain.

I actually don’t like creating from pain at all.

I don’t create from a wound that is still open.

I live through the pain first.

I don’t pour it directly into my art. Only later, when I can look at it from a little distance, can I talk about it.

That’s not to say that people won’t see pain in my work.

They often do.

People often think that the deepest stories come from suffering.

That heartbreak makes you a better writer.

That trauma gives you something meaningful to say.

And sometimes, it does.

Pain can give you a story.

It can change the way you see the world.

It can make you notice things you might otherwise have missed.

But there is a dangerous idea hiding underneath all of this:

that we need to keep hurting in order to keep creating.

We don’t.

Your pain can become part of your art without becoming the purpose of your life.

And there is something else we often forget:

we don’t all see the same thing in someone else’s work.

You can read a story and see pain.

Someone else can read the exact same story and see freedom.

Another person might see love.

Someone else might see anger.

Someone else might see hope.

And none of them necessarily knows what the author intended.

Because we don’t approach art empty-handed.

We bring ourselves to it.

Our experiences.

Our wounds.

Our desires.

Our fears.

Our memories.

I love comparing art to a mirror.

Sometimes we see in art whatever we ourselves are filled with.

We can read a book and see pain. Then read it again years later and suddenly see love.

Maybe the book didn’t change.

Maybe we did.

Maybe what we notice in a piece of art depends on what we are carrying when we encounter it.

Sometimes what hurts us in a piece of art isn’t necessarily what the artist put there.

Sometimes we found our own wound in it.

And perhaps that’s one of the most beautiful things about creating.

Once you release your work into the world, people are allowed to see things in it that you never intended.

And that’s okay.

The artist doesn’t have to agree with every interpretation.

If someone sees only pain in your work, it doesn’t automatically mean you created it from pain.

Maybe they were simply carrying pain when they found your work.

And if someone sees love where you never consciously put love, that’s okay too.

That’s the magic of art.

It leaves the creator’s hands and begins another life inside someone else.

So no, we don’t have to turn suffering into a creative strategy.

We don’t have to remain wounded because someone once found our wounds interesting.

We can heal.

We can become happy.

We can become boring. 😂

We are allowed to become whatever we want.

The only thing we really owe ourselves is the chance to be happy.

People often think the best content is based on pain.

I don’t think that’s true.

The best content is based on emotion.

And emotion doesn’t necessarily mean pain.

It simply means that we are alive.

We can read a book and cry, not because we feel sorry for the character or the author, but because something was written so beautifully that it reached somewhere inside us.

We can write about nothing dramatic at all.

A morning.

A conversation.

A ridiculous thought.

A cup of coffee.

A beautiful dress.

Love.

Freedom.

Nothing.

And still create something meaningful.

I actually love writing about creativity and healing.

But not because I want to show the world the pain I might have experienced.

I write about them because I genuinely enjoy figuring out how things work.

I can write about healing without turning my wounds into content.

I can write about creativity without suffering for it.

And I can create something meaningful without pain.

Pain can be material.

It doesn’t have to be our muse.

You don’t need something dramatic to happen before you can start living or writing again.

You don’t need to put yourself through pain to enter a new chapter.

You don’t need another person to begin living your own life.

They can be there or not.

They can do something or do nothing.

Your creativity doesn’t depend on whether they are there or not.

I think the ability to create is almost an instinct.

At least that’s how it was for me.

I returned to creativity after twenty years, and I started creating as if I had never stopped.

Because when creativity is part of you, it doesn’t disappear.

You will still write.

You will still draw.

You will still dance.

You will still create visuals.

If you are someone who lives through creating, you will create anyway.

You will live anyway.

People often think healing looks like:

“I don’t feel anything anymore.”

I think it looks more like:

“I feel everything. But my life no longer depends on it.”

That is one of the things I understood at the end of my twin flame journey:

I don’t need anyone to fulfill my purpose.

I don’t need a reader to write.

I don’t need an audience to create.

I don’t need someone else’s reaction to know the value of my work.

And I don’t need a particular person to be happy.

I was happy before.
I am happy after.

My life is much bigger than one story.

My life is made of many stories.

And I don’t have to tell only one of them in order to keep writing.

I simply create the way I see the world.

And if people see my work differently, that only makes me happy.

Because we don’t have to explain ourselves to people.

But there is an even deeper level to this:

We don’t have to explain our art either.

We can allow everyone to see something of their own in it.

And we can accept that.

I think projects are a little like children.

We create them.

We give them everything we can.

And then, eventually, we let them go.

Maybe that’s why people say that art doesn’t really belong to us.

Once it enters the world, it belongs to the world.

So if someone sees something in your work that you never consciously put there—

congratulations.

It doesn’t mean you created something badly.

It means you created something that reached them.

Something touched a place inside them.

You struck a chord in their soul.

And perhaps that’s one of the greatest things a creator can ever do.

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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.

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