This has always been a lingering struggle of mine, feeling jealous and insecure when others have what I don’t. I’m an artist, and a decently skilled one at that, with four years of experience behind me. I’ve always dreamed of illustrating for novels, building an online platform, and sharing the love I have for art with the world.
But imposter syndrome always creeps in. I look at my own work and think: It’s not good enough. It’ll never be good enough. Maybe that’s why I don’t get the attention I hope for, because somehow, people can sense the way I see my own art.
The first time I didn’t get much engagement, I shut the account down. The second time, I did find recognition, but life happened. Anxiety overwhelmed me, and I still don’t feel safe enough to return to that community. It feels like I abandoned people I genuinely cared about. But the truth is, constantly pushing content to please the algorithm drained me. It stopped feeling like art.
This year, I found a spark again, my first ever fandom zine. I was excited. I even became close friends with one of my favorite fanfic authors. She’s incredible…she can draw, she can write, and she does both with such effortless grace. Her work always gets immense support, and when we talk about it, she says she doesn’t care about the numbers, just the love for her craft. I admire her deeply.
And yet… something ugly keeps rising inside me. The same thing that’s haunted me before. I can’t always see her as an equal, even though she’s one of my best friends. I keep thinking: Why not me? Why do I keep placing people on pedestals I can’t reach? Why does jealousy taint something I should be celebrating?
I don’t feel like I can talk to my friends about this, because the issue is them, or rather, my feelings toward them. It makes me feel ashamed.
Why can’t I just be happy for the people I love, without letting anxiety and envy cloud everything I care about? I want to enjoy being part of communities again, to draw for the simple joy of creating, without overthinking every step. And securing my dream someday.
But here I am, sounding like I’m wallowing in self-pity. And maybe I am, because at the heart of it, I haven’t taken action. Life, internship, anxiety… they’ve all kept me paralyzed. And I’m tired. I just want to rest.
Still, something stirs: If I don’t put myself out there, how can I complain about not being seen?
Such conflicting feelings. I’m not emotionally close to my parents too. I don’t think a lot of people understand and see me, and it makes me feel that these parts of me can’t be loved.