I’ve spent most of my life repressing my natural creative abilities.

I remember magical art classes at a nearby gallery when I was about eight. One day, I hauled an enormous paper mâché cheetah sculpture I’d made to the car—it barely fit. My parents were thrilled. But to me, it belonged in the gallery. I was so proud.

Back then, whenever I had the choice to read, write, or draw—I drew.

At my Grade 8 graduation, I sat through the Math and Science awards, waiting for my moment. When the Art Award was announced, it was mine. I was celebrated for how I interpreted the world through my creations.

And then… art stopped.

When Logic Took Over

Logic—rooted in the almighty dollar—took over.

In high school, I chose dance as my arts credit. It made sense. I was already dancing several times a week for competitions and ballet exams. It was the logical choice.

Somewhere along the way, I formed a limiting belief:
Art wasn’t worth pursuing.
Because everyone knows… artists starve, die, and then they make money.

So, I made a bold (and seemingly smart) career choice: architecture.
I thought I’d found the loophole—get paid to draw and look cool, like George Costanza.

I breezed through drafting and tech classes. But then came the mic-drop moment:
My guidance counselor told me I’d need math, science… and art to become an architect.

She looked at me and asked,

“You’ve never taken art. How do you expect to be an architect?”

I laughed and said, “Art isn’t the problem—math is.”

I didn’t even realize physics was just math… in a lab coat.

I went from thinking I’d beat the system to being pummeled by equations with math characters I’d never seen before. My carefully calculated path crumbled.

But out of the rubble came art.

Rediscovering Creativity

I was granted exemptions and finally got into a few art classes, including graphic design. For the first time, I truly saw the value of art—it was everywhere. It was also in that class where I wrote my first children’s book, The Sock Snarffer (still unpublished).

I pursued graphic design and earned a communications degree overseas, majoring in advertising. I was SO committed. I believed advertising was the crowning jewel of commercial art.

I obsessed over billboards and commercials. I couldn’t wait to live at the office and work until 3 a.m. chasing the “big idea.”

But I had a bigger idea—balance.

Living in Australia changed me. Aussies taught me to work to live, not live to work.

By the time I returned home, I didn’t want anything to do with the ad industry.
I was grieving both the death of my ad agency dream and the carefree version of myself I’d met overseas.

I slogged through portfolio reviews. My concepts were strong, but my heart was still back on the Pier in Sydney.

I was miserable. I didn’t have a plan—or a paycheque.

The Safe Choice

Enter: the olive branch of deeper creative repression.

I took a “real job” at a small tech company, managing marketing and events. I felt like a sell-out.

But I worked with friends, owned the customer experience, wrote content, and influenced design. It wasn’t as bad as I feared.

I moved from tech to insurance, and over my corporate career, I worked with so many talented designers. I told myself it didn’t matter that I wasn’t the one doing the creative. I was involved—close enough to scratch the itch.

Or so I thought.

Judgment as Expression

My opinion became my artistic outlet.

I had thoughts on everything:
The sculpture in the park with no perspective. The exposed hot glue on an artisan’s work at the brewery.

I sat on an “I could do better” pedestal—propped up by self-judgment and jealousy.

It was safe and comfortable up there.

But here’s the thing—they were doing it.
And for a long time, I wasn’t.

Art Trickled Back In

Slowly, art returned.

A handprint here. A potato stamp there.
Then the fridge filled up. The windows filled up. Even the Christmas tree filled up.

It sounds joyful—and it was—but I struggled with it.

What is this?
What’s it for?
This is a waste of time.
What do I do with it all?
This is terrible for the environment.
Why is there so much?

I was stuck in the belief that art needed a purpose.

But my kids’ art taught me otherwise. They reminded me that art is in the making.

My giant cheetah didn’t have a goal other than being the biggest, bestest sculpture in the gallery.

Art is about being present. It's about creating from your heart.

It's about making cool shit you’re proud of.

Coming Back to Colour

Now, I offer myself radical forgiveness for being afraid to follow the art in my heart.

I’ve learned so much about myself—I don’t regret the path, because it brought me here.

I felt fear when choosing the colour palette for I’m Not Pooping.
I was terrified to commit to those unsettling shades of baby poop… afraid of judgment from the pedestals I once sat on.

But I listened to my gut, followed my heart, and made the choice for me. And I’m proud of it.

(Side note: if you’ve never been a new mom, you may not know this—but they Google poop colours. All. The. Time.)

✨ Your Turn

Have you ever walked away from something you loved?
What would it look like to pick it back up again? I’d love to hear your story in the comments—or connect with you on Instagram @tanya__harvey