The Gifted Child Burnout - Losing and Reclaiming Art
This one is for my fellow creatives - the ones who were told, early on, that they were different. That they were talented. That they were exceptional. And for those of us who spent years trying to live up to that expectation - until we couldn’t anymore.
From a young age, I wasn’t just creative - I was gifted. That’s what they called it. That’s what they told me. Teachers, family, society. I wasn’t just drawing; I was meant to be an artist. I wasn’t just writing; I was destined to create something big. And what starts as encouragement quickly becomes a script - one you don’t realize you’ve memorized until it’s too late.
When you’re young and talented, people don’t just celebrate what you make - they attach it to your identity. And suddenly, your worth isn’t just about who you are. It’s about what you can do. The expectation is set: you will achieve something great. You will make something of this. You will live up to your potential.
When your identity is built on being gifted, there’s an invisible line between who you are and what you produce. And without even realizing it, you spend your life chasing the next thing - the next achievement, the next breakthrough, the next moment of proving yourself. You learn to measure your value by what you create instead of who you are. And maybe that works for a while. Maybe you push yourself harder and harder, believing you can outrun the exhaustion. But at some point, you hit a wall. The spark fades. The joy disappears. You’re left standing in the wreckage of your own expectations, wondering where the hell your passion went.
The worst part about burnout isn’t just exhaustion. It’s the loss of something that once felt like home. Art, writing, music - whatever your medium - it stops feeling like play and starts feeling like work. Like obligation. Like pressure. And the weight of it all - the need for approval, the fear of disappointing the people who saw something special in you - can be suffocating. So maybe you stop. Maybe you avoid the blank page, the empty canvas, because the act of creating doesn’t feel like yours anymore. It feels like something you owe to someone else.
I disappeared into this cycle for years. I kept creating, but it wasn’t for me. It was for the commissions, the Facebook likes, the unspoken expectation that my work should be polished, presentable, perfect. And somewhere in the middle of all that performance, I lost the thing that once set my soul on fire.
Coming back to creativity wasn’t a sudden, magical moment. It wasn’t a grand epiphany. It was slow. It was messy. It was unlearning the belief that every piece had to be worthy of something. I had to give myself permission to create behind closed doors. To explore, to play, to make absolute garbage if that’s what came out of me that day. I had to sit in the discomfort of making things that would never be seen, that wouldn’t earn applause or validation. And at first, that felt terrifying. But slowly, something shifted. I started making art because it felt good. Because it helped me process things I didn’t have words for. Because it made me feel alive again.
So what does success look like now? It’s not the awards. It’s not the followers or the recognition or the pressure to live up to a childhood prophecy. Success is creating something raw and real. Success is reclaiming the joy of making. Success is knowing that even if no one ever saw my work, it would still matter - because it matters to me.
If you’re reading this and you’ve felt it too - the burnout, the detachment, the fear that maybe you’ve lost the thing that once defined you - let this be your permission to step away from what’s expected. To let go of the weight of being gifted. To create without explanation. To play. To explore. To take your art back for yourself.
You don’t have to prove your talent to anyone. You don’t owe your creativity to the world. It is yours. And that is enough.
Listen to the audio version of this post below for those who connect with words not just by reading, but by feeling them through sound: