Here’s a bold truth: mastering something you’re not naturally good at can be one of the most rewarding struggles of your life. And this is the part most people miss—it’s not about perfection; it’s about finding joy in the process, even when it’s messy. Let me take you back to my own journey, which began with a teddy bear named Vincent and ended with a fridge full of imperfect paintings.
As a five-year-old, my world revolved around fairies, the Spice Girls, and a peculiar fascination with Vincent van Gogh. But it wasn’t his tumultuous life or tragic ear incident that captured my imagination—it was a children’s book. For the Love of Vincent, by Brenda V. Northeast, reimagined Van Gogh as a teddy bear, and it was this whimsical version that introduced me to the real artist’s vibrant, finger-paint-friendly style. I was hooked. I even dressed as ‘Vincent Van Bear’ for Book Week, confusing everyone but solidifying my love for art.
For years, painting was my happy place—until high school. Suddenly, art wasn’t just something I did; it was something I was judged on. The joy faded, replaced by fear. As I learned more about artists like Van Gogh, I started to believe that the ‘artist’s life’ was for people who felt things more intensely than I did. Convincing myself I’d never be exceptional made it easier to quit. But here’s where it gets controversial—is talent really the only reason to create? Or is there value in doing something simply because it matters to you, regardless of skill?
Years later, when I became an art writer, the urge to paint resurfaced. I was drawn to oil painting, with its air of prestige and challenge. I wanted to learn, but more importantly, I wanted to embrace being a beginner. I signed up for a class, committing four hours every Sunday to standing in front of an easel. We started with the fundamentals: color theory, composition, drawing, and the surprisingly tricky art of paint mixing. Our teacher was strict—we couldn’t start painting until our palettes were mixed to perfection. Over 12 weeks, we tackled abstraction, landscapes, and portraits, often through unconventional exercises. One week, we recreated a John Singer Sargent portrait in black and white; another, we mastered Anders Zorn’s limited ‘Zorn palette’ for a portrait of Martha Dana. It was fascinating, but it was also hard.
The hardest lesson? Finding joy in the struggle. I wasn’t naturally gifted at oil painting. One week, I spent three frustrating hours trying to paint a satin ribbon, only to leave class in a foul mood. I was angry at myself for not being instantly great at something difficult—and angrier still for being angry about it. But when I picked up the painting the following week, I realized two things: my ribbon wasn’t half bad for a first attempt, and I’d learned something valuable. I hated painting fabric, but I’d done it, and I’d get better. And this is the part most people miss—growth often comes from embracing what you’re bad at, not just what you’re good at.
Weeks later, I was tasked with painting a white sheet against a white background. Lesson learned: teachers can be brutal. But by the end of the 12-week course, I had something I never expected—confidence. Each week, I’d bring my latest painting home and stick it on the fridge, a silly nod to my five-year-old self. That fridge became my gallery wall, a testament to my progress. When visitors asked about my paintings, I stopped cringing and started owning it. It’s character-building, for sure. And I like to think Vincent—the man, not the bear—would approve.
So, here’s my question for you: What’s something you’ve avoided because you weren’t naturally good at it? And what might you gain if you tried it anyway? Let’s discuss in the comments—I’d love to hear your thoughts.
