If you had asked me a few years ago if I considered myself an artist, I would have laughed pretty loud and professed, “oh, no, not me!” Same as if you had asked me if I thought I was creative, adventurous, or resilient.

Yet at the same time, I was a competitive and professional figure skater for over two decades, I sing more than I talk daily, and I was the CEO of my own literary agency (Ric-Rac if you’re interested) where I self-published my short stories and poems at the age of 9. I was also the illustrator, although drawing may not have been my top talent. Yet I never saw myself as an artist, nor did I think I did any creating in my daily life.

I was just a figure skater.

Just a yoga and meditation teacher.

Just a person that likes languages, words, and music.

In 2020, one of my good friends invited me to participate in a peer group where weekly, we discussed the gem of a book that is The Artist’s Way.

Without truly knowing what I was getting myself into, I joined this small group of what I considered real artists: a surf-board designer, a paper artist, painters, yoga teachers, musicians, writers, poets, and a couple of DJ’s. Many of them hold more than one of these titles at once.

To me, these true artists had something I didn’t: the gift of creativity.