Women Were Born Creatives, Even If You Don’t Think So
The denial and rebellion of feminine creativity waiting to blossom—and impact the world
My heart pounded.
Fear radiated in waves from my chest, stiffening in my shoulders, gliding down my spine and settling in the pit of my stomach where it churned and throbbed.
I swallowed and tried to find an interesting spot on the wall to focus and regulate my breathing.
Across from me sat a woman with more wealth on one finger than I’d seen in a lifetime. The diamond on her hand caught the light as she spoke in measured tones, her voice smooth, her timing impeccable. She smiled at all the right moments, radiant in a crisp white brunch dress that seemed to glisten almost as much as she did.
I had been invited to a “brunch” after Kindergarten drop-off at our children’s new private school—an invitation that felt innocent enough, until I pulled into the parking lot.
My battered gray 2006 Malibu, missing a rim and weary from years of use, sat like a relic among sleek luxury SUVs and polished sedans. I caught my breath as I watched the morning parade: parents in tailored coats ushering their children toward the grand double doors, monogrammed backpacks bouncing behind them, white Nike swooshes caught the morning light, gleaming like quiet symbols of belonging—of ease, of certainty in one’s place.
In that same instant, I felt the absence of my own.
I was an outsider in a world that felt unfamiliar and gleaming, wrapped in the quiet precision of generational wealth. That contrast only sharpened when I arrived at the brunch—where everything, from the stemware to the small talk, seemed curated.
Didn’t my sweater still have spit-up from the night before? Had I even brushed my hair? I scanned the room, realizing I had completely missed the memo—that this wasn’t just a casual meet-up. It was a silent performance.
And I hadn’t rehearsed.
The woman across from me—the one with the diamond that caught the light like it had something to say—must have noticed my discomfort. I was shifting my two-year-old from one hip to the other, trying to steady my breath as the brunch murmured on around us.
With a polished smile, she turned to include me.
“And Alice—she’s such a creative. And so techy too!”
Her words landed softly, but something in me bristled.
Maybe it was the unease—the sense that I was performing a version of myself in a world that felt foreign. Maybe it was a quiet rebellion against the display of wealth encircling the table—nannies at home, housekeepers in the wings, women flawlessly dressed before noon.
Or maybe, it was because I had seen her once before without the mask—heard the undercurrent of sorrow when she spoke of losing herself in a life built for someone else’s dreams. A life curated by expectations, not desire.
I met her gaze and gently shook my head.
“I don’t think I’m that creative or techy—at least no more than any other woman could be,” I said, my voice steady but soft.
“It’s not a gift. It’s a mindset. Creativity is simply facing something you don’t yet know how to do… and choosing to stay curious. Asking yourself what the next step might be. And trying.”
I hadn’t meant to say so much, but the words kept coming—gentle but sure.
“There’s fear involved, of course. A reckoning with yourself—sometimes even the darker, more uncertain parts. But we move forward anyway. One step at a time. Not because we’re confident, but because we’re willing. Because we trust ourselves enough to keep stepping into the unknown.”
Only then did I notice: the table had fallen completely silent.
You could have heard a brunch fork drop. Maybe even the clink of my own certainty shattering across the linen-draped table.
I’d forgotten the rules—forgotten how to keep it light. This wasn’t the place for musings about fear, or courage, or the way women come home to themselves. The air was meant for weather and weekend plans. For compliments on dresses and updates on our children’s sweet antics. That was safe. That was the language of belonging here.
The waiter arrived to take our orders, breaking the stillness with a practiced smile. I barely said another word for the rest of the meal.
I left early—slipping out after paying my tab, cursing myself not just for the cost of the overpriced latte and scone, but for the cost of being too much. Of putting myself too fully on the table in a space where softness and depth felt unwelcome.
I could already feel how this would echo—at drop-offs, school events, and parent gatherings.
I had been reminded: this was not a space for risk.
And I had risked anyway.
The tide that turned
A month or so later, the Diamond Woman caught my arm just after drop-off.
I had been moving quickly, head down, trying to disappear into the flurry of students and status—another quiet exit, another practiced vanishing act.
But she stopped me.
And when I looked up, her eyes met mine—warm, clear, unguarded.
The morning bustle seemed to hush around us. For a moment, the pretenses dissolved. No curated smiles, no audience. Just her and me.
“Alice,” she said, gently, “I’ve been meaning to thank you. For what you shared at brunch that day.”
She paused, the sincerity in her voice catching me off guard.
“I needed to send an invitation for an event recently, and I didn’t think I could do it—I almost gave up. But then I remembered what you said… about trying the next step. So I did it. I created my own QR code and everything.”
She laughed, not nervously, but with pride.
And something in her had shifted. Gratitude shone through her expression—but so did something else: softness. A kind of self-return.
Facing our innate creative nature as women—accepting its truth
This week, I sketched for the first time in a very long time. Many feelings arose to the surface—conditioned feelings of inadequacy and non-personhood.
Art, creativity and problem solving are so innate to women—and yet we are told otherwise. To keep us in our place. To keep us small. To keep us controlled and “less than” men—or at least certain men I have experienced in my life that were major players in the molding of my understanding of my own worth and abilites.
Just like the fear I felt during that brunch, I doubted who I was. I was conditioned to fit in—to be what other people needed and desired.
Creativity is such an extension of who we are as women. It’s a tangible expression of our inner world—and its meaning in the wider world around us. The creations we mold with our hands and our bodies are like ripples across the world from a butterflies wings.
Of course then, daring to create elicits fear.
Of course it means facing ourselves.
Of course, then it means being brave—even in the smallest of creative steps.
The picking up of a pen. The purchasing of sour dough starter. The blink of the curser before black and white words appear across the page, mirroring our typing. The paint color in the can we chose, waiting in the middle of the nursery. The excel spreadsheet numbers organized with astounding precision. The texture and color of the fabric waiting in the sewing machine. The pen scratches of mathematic calculations we did today on the kitchen notepad.
All creative endeavors. And this list falls terribly short of all the beauty and wonder we are capable of creating as women.
Because what is creativity?
Curiosity.
A irrevocable belief in oneself—especially in light of complete and utter failure—that belief still remaining in the potential ashes.
A strength to fail. Because within creativity—we all fail. And maybe that’s why women are most apt in creative pursuits. Our egos are not so frail—we are not so afraid to lose all of ourselves in the pursuit.
We are born to give ourselves over to creation—of birth, life and death.
And the only thing keeping us from this truth is a ceiling made by man. For so many of us, this has been our cage—remaining smaller than their own capabilities. But we do not need to be afraid any longer.
And we do not need to shrink ourselves to the abilities of men.
We can be so, so much more—when we are freed.
Conclusion—dare to create and be free
So today, as I type these words—I will face the fear of myself and my place in the world. The fear of the walls I was told to stay within—the cage of self, I was taught that I must reside within in order to receive any sort of worth or love or acceptance.
With each word, I break free.
With each brushstroke on the artwork I am daring to create right now, for the first time in a long time—I will acknowledge the clenching in my stomach. the overwhelming fear of failure. Of daring.
And when I go back from this wild, back to the dance that is my life—in the face of private school, leased luxury vehicles and social graces, I will dare—
To be myself.
To be woman.
To be free.
To breakaway.
Because you and I were born to create. Born to mold and shape the world around us.
Born to step into the waters, face ourselves in the reflection and create waves.
Waves that take up space in the world.
Waves that create impact and shape the whole world.
So dare to face yourself today. Dare to take up space. Dare to fail.
And most of all, dare to succeed—
in finding yourself.
Wildflower Roots
A behind-the-scenes look at what’s next—and connection as we walk this healing journey together, through sunshine and storms.
💛 What’s next:
Tuesday, June 24th (paid post): Grounded & Wild Summer Series, Week #4: Softness as Resistance: Letting Yourself Be Tender in a Demanding World – Next Tuesday, we reach the halfway point of our Grounded & Wild summer series with a post that’s close to the heart. I’m exploring why feminine softness—emotional rest, tenderness, slowness—isn’t a flaw but a quiet rebellion. In a world that demands we stay busy, bright, and put-together, choosing to soften might be the most grounded and wild thing we offer. If you’ve been craving permission to feel deeply, move slowly, and breathe again—this one’s for you.
Thursday, June 26th (free post): I Found a Poem in the Mountains—and It Changed Me - This Thursday, I’m sharing something tender and rare: a handwritten poem I found tucked inside a mountain cabin guestbook, dated 1957. It captured fifty years of love, hardship, and family legacy—and it hit me like a wave. Maybe because it reflected something I’ve longed for. Maybe because it whispered of the kind of life I hope to build for my children. Either way, I can’t stop thinking about it. I hope it touches you too.
📝Updates:
Come join us in this 8-week summer series Grounded & Wild, a nervous system recalibration for the overwhelm and craziness of summer. These posts offer a space to come and exhale all the stress, to connect with other readers and to unburden yourself. Running every Tuesday for eight weeks, click here to join and jump in at anytime. Bonus: you also gain access not only to the entire series but all paid Wildflowers Grow essays in this exclusive private bookshelf. Sink into your favorite comfy chair, curl up with a warm cup of tea and indulge in some “me time” reading this summer.
💬 Join the conversation: Have you ever felt fear in the face of a creative endeavor—maybe in the midst of a blank page or the how-tos?
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Do you feel like women are innately creative by nature?
Thank you for sharing your story and holding this space for us, Alice. More and more, I feel out of place in a world that keeps buzzing along. Thank you for reminding us to remain open to connection. For that and creation feed our souls.
This was so powerful and beautifully written. I felt every word. And saw myself in that whole brunch scene. I wouldn’t have been able to speak as eloquently as you did. I probably would have just nodded and passes the ball back to them. But you spoke so bravely and truthfully and in doing so, freed something in someone else. That is so beautiful and I feel inspired for having read this. 👏