Between the ages of 11 and 14, I was basically a prodigy. At least, that’s what I told myself every time I filled another sketchbook. Every spare moment was a chance to draw. The back of homework sheets, the margins of textbooks, any notebook that dared to have a blank page near me. I drew characters, faces, random creatures that probably belonged in someone’s fever dream. I loved it. I was in my element. It was my thing.
Fast forward to 34, and let me paint you a picture (pun fully intended): I recently picked up a pencil for the first time in years, sat down full of nostalgic confidence… and produced something that looked like a potato wearing a hat.
Where did my hands go? Did I accidentally return them at some point?
The humbling part isn’t just that I’ve gotten rustier, it’s that my style has apparently evolved into something I didn’t ask for. It’s abstract. It’s expressive. It’s… let’s call it ‘charmingly chaotic.’ My 14-year-old self would be absolutely horrified and also a little intrigued.
But here’s the thing I keep coming back to: I don’t actually care. Not the way I thought I would. Because somewhere between the wobbly lines and the third attempt at drawing a nose, something clicked back on inside me. That quiet, focused headspace I’d completely forgotten about? It came back. Just like that.
Doodling doesn’t ask you to be good. It doesn’t care about your skill level or what you used to be capable of. You sit down, you make marks on paper, and for a little while your brain gets to just… breathe. No overthinking. Just you and a pencil being mediocre together in a really peaceful way.
There’s something about letting yourself be a beginner again, even at something you once loved. You start to see the page differently. You’re not performing for anyone. You’re just playing. And slowly, underneath all the rust, you start to find that person again. The one who drew for the pure joy of it, not because they were good.
The artist is still in there. They just needed a nudge and a decent pencil.
