A few months ago, a friend recommended The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. I haven’t finished it yet (still chipping away at it), but the first few chapters were enough to help me overcome a creative block.

One idea that really stood out was Cameron’s invitation to name your creative monsters.

“What on earth is that?” you might ask.

She describes creative monsters as the people, voices, or moments in your life that made you feel ashamed, small, or not good enough to create. They can be loud—like harsh criticism shouted across a room—or they can be quiet moments with friends who laughed a little too long at something you made, or gently suggested you “stick to what you’re good at.” Subtle, almost forgettable at the time… but somehow, they linger.

At first, I brushed it off. I didn’t think I had any. But the more I sat with the idea, the more the repressed memories surfaced.

The Choir Incident

I remember a moment from primary school. I was singing in choir when the teacher stopped the entire class to single me out. I had unintentionally sung a note for a second longer than written in the score, and it was a little pitchy. I still remember the heat rising in my face, the weight of humiliation settling in my chest as she publicly berated me. By now, everyone was staring at me. I was utterly humiliated. Looking back, she could have chosen a thousand different ways to correct me, but in the end, she chose the path that extinguished part of my creative flame. I’m sure that moment has something to do with why I still feel nervous whenever I create music, despite how much I enjoy the process.

Out of curiosity, I googled her recently and found her LinkedIn profile. I flinched a little when I saw that same menacing grin — I guess the body really does keep the score, and mine still remembers that dreadful encounter.

Like Salt in the Wound

Thinking deeper, there was also a period in high school when I started a YouTube channel making music covers with a friend. We were just two kids having fun, filming videos in odd locations like our backyards or the bathroom (great acoustics), stitching together the low-resolution clips on iMovie. Then one day, someone commented on a video that I was trying too hard. I laughed it off, but deep down, it stung. Don’t get me wrong—when I rewatched those old videos (the channel no longer exists), I cringe too! And I’m not surprised at all that posting those videos publicly invited opportunities for scrutiny. Regardless, those strangers’ words were like salt water drowning my unhealed wounds. I stopped singing and playing guitar for a while after that.

You Don’t Need Permission To Create

Now that I have opened a can of worms, I can recall many more stories of creative monsters—moments and voices that taught me to associate creativity with danger. Not the exhilarating kind of risk, but the kind that leaves you exposed. I learned to believe that unless my work was flawless, it wasn’t worth sharing. That creativity had to earn its place. That anything less than perfect was an invitation for shame.

But the older I get, the more I realise that’s complete nonsense. Slowly, I’m learning to disentangle creativity from perfectionism. To reclaim it—not as a performance for approval, but as a pathway to truth and connection.

At its core, creativity is about expression. That’s why it’s often encouraged as part of healing or managing depression. For me, it’s about reconnecting with that unfiltered inner voice—the one I had as a child, before the world told me to tone it down. It’s about pouring my truth onto the page, the canvas, the strings—whatever form it takes.

So sure—even if what I create isn’t ‘perfect’ or ‘good enough,’ that doesn’t matter anymore. By whose standards am I measuring myself? Creativity isn’t about comparison. It’s about coming home to myself. After all, I was created to create.

How To Defeat the Enemy

In The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron suggests a surprisingly simple exercise: write an unfiltered journal entry directed at your creative monsters. No censorship. No politeness. Just you, speaking directly to the people, moments, or voices that made you feel like you weren’t enough. Let the anger, hurt, or grief rise to the surface. Let it all out on the page—because naming the monster is the first step in taking away its power.

I tried this, and it was surprisingly cathartic. I highly recommend it. But over time, I’ve come to believe that the most powerful strategy is even simpler: start again. Start singing again. Start drawing, baking, dancing again. Start writing terrible first drafts or strumming awkward guitar chords. Start making vlogs or explore your business idea. Just start—and have the audacity to take up space.

Because each time you choose to create, despite the fear or self-doubt, it’s a quiet act of rebellion. A moral victory. With every attempt, and a little self-kindness, those monsters begin to lose their grip.

And while you’re learning to quiet the monsters in your own head, remember this too: don’t become someone else’s. Be gentle with other people’s first drafts. Encourage the shaky beginnings. You never know which offhand comment might echo in someone’s mind for years—so let your words be the ones that make them feel brave enough to keep going.

We aren’t just making art.
We’re reclaiming ourselves.

So—who were your creative monsters, and how are they still holding you back?