Why Making Art Feels Impossible Right Now

It’s a rainy morning. The kind where the sky feels heavy, the streets are quiet, and the air smells like a fresh start you’re not sure you can take. I’ve been up since 4 a.m., wondering if I’m doing the right thing.

You’d think after years of creating — in different forms, different mediums — I’d be past this. But no. The doubts still creep in, especially now.

The world feels like it’s burning. Wars, economic problems, housing crises — everywhere you look, people are struggling. And when the weight of the world is so heavy, it’s easy to wonder:

Does my art even matter?

A TED talk I once saw said that when the world is at its worst, art is at its most needed. That we should create double time when things are hard. I’m not entirely sure I agree — or maybe I just can’t feel that truth right now.

The case for making art when the world is on fire | Amie McNee | TEDxManchester

The Long Road Back to Art
I wasn’t supposed to be an artist. My parents made sure of that. They told me if I pursued art, I’d starve. So I listened. I walked away from the thing I loved most after ninth grade.

I became a plumber. Then an engineer. Then, slowly, I found my way back through graphic design and photography. But it took years to admit to myself: I can’t outrun my creativity.

Now I run a YouTube channel, document my street art adventures, manage my Etsy shop, post across multiple social platforms, and try to keep the lights on. My wife and I both work in creative fields, and when clients drop off, it’s not just our finances that take the hit — it’s our energy, our focus, our ability to create.

The Time Problem
People say “just make time” like it’s a switch you can flip. But making videos takes days. Editing, filming, writing — and that’s on top of paying work that keeps us afloat.

I love my travel series on street art. I love finding it, filming it, sharing it. But it’s not Mr. Beast-style fast cuts, and I know that’s what the internet rewards. Life isn’t a 30-second reel — but attention spans are.

And then there are my other projects: DIY art builds, linocut prints, lunchbox paintings. They sit half-finished because something else — usually bills — demands my attention. The spark fades before I can see them through.

Being an Artist Now Means Being Everything
It’s not just about making the art anymore. You have to film it, edit it, share it, market it. If you don’t, your work will sit unseen. In 2025, “make art, not content” is romantic — but unrealistic. You have to make art and content, or no one will know your art exists.

So I juggle Instagram, TikTok, YouTube Shorts, Cara, my blog, Etsy — all while trying to hold onto the joy of creating. Some days I do it well. Other days, I feel like I’m failing everywhere.

Why I Keep Going
There’s no neat resolution here. I still feel the weight of small views, slow sales, and constant hustle. I still wonder if I’m enough — interesting enough, funny enough, charismatic enough to make this work in a language that’s not my own.

But I also know I can’t stop. I’ve spent too many years away from art to abandon it again. Even if the audience is small. Even if the road is long.

The rain outside is still falling. Maybe it’s a sign to slow down. Or maybe it’s just weather. Either way, I’ll keep creating — because there really is no other option.