Some days I feel like I’m chasing a version of myself I’ll never catch.
The artist I imagine in my head is smarter, faster, more creative.
They know what they’re doing. They make things that matter.
They don’t second-guess every move.
But I do.
I hesitate.
I doubt.
I look at my work and wonder if I’m just pretending.
There’s a quiet ache in wanting to be more than you are.
A kind of grief for the artist you thought you’d be by now.
The one you’ve built in your mind—clear and confident—
always just out of reach.
And yet, something keeps me going.
Hope.
Not loud. Not flashy. But steady.
It whispers, try again tomorrow.
One more photo. One more draft. One more step.
Maybe the goal isn’t to become the perfect version of myself.
Maybe it’s to keep showing up—messy, unsure, in progress.
Maybe being an artist is about living in the in-between.
Still reaching. Still creating.
Even when it’s hard to believe in yourself.
Because even in the quiet, even in the dark,
hope keeps me moving.
And maybe that’s enough.
Let me know if you want a one-line summary or teaser for the top.
uncommonsight 