About Liz Verna

I journaled a little through school but found it hard to write freely, the urge to write would dissipate as I picked up the pen and felt my feelings shrinking as I struggled to put words to the feelings I was already dismissing as too messy to spread around. It was almost as if this vise of expectation I was being squeezed into, this indoctrination of niceness that I was being fed into like a conveyor belt was slowly crushing my young girl-pleaser sensibilities all the way down to the bones of my subconscious the message that even my thoughts had to be nice. Even my feelings had to consider other people first. Even in secret, in quiet, I was not allowed to rage and be selfish or mean or take up space in any significant way. Not even in my writing, not even in my heart. Not ever.

I wrote for school papers in both high school and college but could not be so audacious as to embrace an identity as a writer despite majoring in literature and creative writing. Wouldn’t a real writer be better at it? Wouldn’t a real writer write all the time without effort? Wouldn’t a real writer simply call themselves a real writer? Without proof - a book, epic poem, or working series of Snapple bottle caps - I continued to write in frustration about what I couldn’t do and wouldn’t accomplish and waited for the world to decide who I was for me.

By the time I ran to therapy carrying the pieces of my self-image in various zip-lock baggies, I was in my mid-20s and living in New York City. The artistic and creative parts of myself that were still struggling to write were used to being separated from the rest of me and treated as less important than the rent-earning parts, but as I got to work quieting the negative voices in my head it turned out they were standing between me and my creative impulses. When I was able to shift into permission to write without judgment, it kicked off a chain reaction. Suddenly I could feel feelings I had long repressed in favor of people-pleasing, I could detach from a final product enough to enjoy the writing process, and I could do things I had been afraid to try, like art school.

I was always creative and talentless, loving color and lacking ability. I would linger in front of the Art Student League, paralyzed by imposter syndrome - remember the rainbow? Who did I think I was, Eileen? I was too much of a beginner to begin. However, leaning into the creative acceptance of journaling gave me the freedom to chase my love of art through those doors all the way to a graduate degree in creative arts therapy even though I never became a great artist. Or even a very good one. But it was never about the art, really, it was about feeling worthy enough to try, cultivating grace to allow myself to make mistakes, and having faith in the unpredictable storm of the creative journey with only myself to rely on and knowing I would colorfully, consistently and courageously find my way out.

Ultimately your creative expression is just another tool to help untangle, energize, and stretch your emotions. Like anyone who fishes, collects stamps, or bangs a drum, I write and make art because there’s something in me that wants to express that thing and I feel better when I do. I don’t do it because I’m a genius. But since I insist on doing it I can use it consciously to help my mood and energy, I can notice its absence as a tracker for my depression or a breach in my boundary perimeter, and feel its consistency to see patterns in my behavior I might want to shift. Or I can do none of these things and lay around and feel sorry for myself, that happens too.