Why I Disconnect From My Artist Self in Public

Hi friends,

I’ve been thinking a lot about the different versions of ourselves that show up depending on where we are. How certain environments bring parts of us forward, while others seem to dim them. It’s a quiet kind of shift, one that’s easy to miss unless you’re paying attention.

Lately, I’ve been noticing how this plays out in my own life, especially as an artist. There’s a version of myself I only seem to meet when the world is quiet. She doesn’t speak loudly, but when the noise settles, she returns, calm, alert, and deeply alive. That’s the version of me that makes art. The one who sees color in everything. The one who starts thinking in shapes and light without trying.

When I’m home, or alone, or just moving slowly through the day, I feel close to her. It’s not something I have to turn on, she’s just there. I notice how the light spills on the floor. I get ideas while I’m washing dishes. I pick up my brush, or write something down, or stare at a painting for too long, thinking about the next layer. At home, in stillness, I feel like an artist. No doubt about it.

But the moment I step into a louder space, when I’m out visiting family, meeting friends, even going out on dates with my husband, I feel something slip. It’s hard to explain, but it’s like my creative self detaches.

Not dramatically, just quietly. I don’t think about art. I don’t feel inspired. I’m not fully in my body. I’m just trying to keep up with what’s happening around me. I go into a kind of survival mode, where I’m smiling and present on the surface, but internally, I feel flat. Disconnected. Almost like I’ve left the room.

Unless I am in a quieter space, somewhere like a trail, or a park, or even just sitting in nature with no agenda, my mind doesn’t wander.

I used to wonder what was wrong with me. Why I couldn’t carry that part of myself everywhere. Why I seemed to lose access to something that felt so central to who I am. But I think I understand it better now.

When I’m alone or in a calm setting, my attention turns inward. I’m not performing. I’m not bracing myself. I’m just existing. My thoughts have space to move, and that space allows creativity to surface.

But in public, especially in crowded or overstimulating spaces, my focus turns outward. I start scanning for how I’m coming across. Unconsciously trying to manage energy, mine and everyone else’s. And in that state, the part of me that makes art has to go quiet, because it can’t survive in that noise.

I’m starting to see that this is just part of my rhythm. I don’t lose my creative self when I leave the house. I just set her down for a while, and she waits until I’m back in a space that feels safe enough, still enough, real enough, for her to return.

If this feels familiar to you, I hope this reminds you: that quiet part of you is not lost. It’s not gone just because it’s quiet. It’s waiting for stillness, for safety, for you. And it will come back. It always does.

Thanks for being here

warmly,

Cassandra

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