I suck at painting, like seriously it’s awful. If someone were to describe it they’d tell you it’s a pure disaster on a canvas. My bulbous attempt at ombre purple flowers—the uneven dimensions made it look like a toddler got ahold of my acrylics. I am a painter without the proper skill and technique that you’d expect from someone who loved art since childhood. I call it my curse. A painter who cannot paint—the tragic love story I never knew I’d tell.

So, why create if it’s no good? Why invest time and money into paintings that could only receive “aw, how cute!” and other patronizing phrases no matter how old I get? Well, it’s my happy medium. The rhythm of holding the brushes and dipping them in fresh paint—the melodic nature of twirling the brush around and around on a fresh canvas. It relaxes me.

The paint on my hands like the juice of fresh fruit on my palms—sticking to me. It covers me in a protective suit of color. The girl who’d hide in every version of beige hoping so desperately to not be seen now exploding with every color at her fingertips.

People wonder why I’d continue to be so involved with painting if I’m not good at it. But the truth is, who said anyone needs to be perfect at their creative medium? Hell, it may just be for fun and to relax and to get your mind off of whatever the fuck is going on in the world.

Whenever I write a new poem or story I think about my paintings—ugly blobs of color and vibrance. And that is what my drafts are. My drafts are never right the first time around—they are, by definition, the ugliest pieces of art. My chicken scratch handwriting making arrows and edits—all in turquoise, maroon, and indigo. The page is a mess—a disaster of colorful words and messy diction. But that doesn’t make them unworthy. It took me a long time to realize that.

My art is mine.

That’s why every draft I write is just as worthy as the finished product. Now, I’m not saying I don’t beat myself up over the frustrating and agonizing revision process. Trust me, when I have terrible writers block or a word that would fit perfectly in a poem escapes me all I want to do is fix it now. I want “the problem” solved and it to be complete—to be something I can be proud of. But the truth is that isn’t reality.

Writing and my shitty painting go hand-in-hand. The “ugly” parts of creating are just as valid as those “perfect” or “polished” pieces. Because without mistakes or having fun what is it that this medium does? Because not everything needs to be perfect and for the world. Sometimes, the best healing in the world is just creating for yourself.

So, the next time you question the worthiness of your art—the creation that you nursed and brought into this world—remember that it’s yours. Shitty paintings and all.