Recently, I’ve been walking through a season of difficulty. Not small things, or “we had a tense conversation and moved on” things with family. I mean really, really hard things. The kind that hits deeper than you realize at first.
Some of it has been gut-wrenching. Some of it has been heartbreaking. Some of it has required me to recover from one event, one interaction, one painful moment at a time. And grief that required some work to honestly and clearly identify what’s been lost.
Lately, things intensified to the point where each day felt like an exercise in grit and tears. And yes, I have rested. Yes, I have put on worship music. Yes, I have spent time on my knees and in my journal. Yes, I have called my besties and asked them to pray, listening to their own hard-earned wisdom. And yes, the Lord has shown up. The Holy Spirit has comforted me. The blood of Jesus covers us all.
Great white egrets in the Charleston Intracoastal Waterway — pluff mud in the foreground 😝
But blast it all, it has still been bloody and frustrating.
I can put on my game face. I can do the adulting that needs to be done. I can keep moving forward. But lately, moving forward has felt like walking through pluff mud.
For my non-U.S. Southern friends, pluff mud is a thick sludge found in the marshes and waterways of the Lowcountry. Marsh grasses and great White Egrets and blue crabs and an entire ecosystem flourishes in it. I became well-acquainted with it while living on an island in my beloved Charleston, SC. Pluff mud’s made of decaying marsh grass, clay, and organic matter. It is sticky, smells earthy and wild. The smell either repulses you or you’ll love and miss it when away (as I genuinely do). And if you step too deep into it, it acts a whole lot like quicksand.
Pretty flipping accurate, now that I think about it.
That is what this season has felt like. Sticky. Slow. Heavy. Hard to pull out of. And if you are an artist, you can probably imagine what walking through pluff mud does to your studio practice and creativity in general.
ANYONE relate??
So when I finally decided to get back to my creativity – any creativity, really – I decided to try out a new technique for my art journal. I often work in my art journal to kick-start my practice, loosen myself up, and have some unfettered, non-over-thinking fun before hitting the canvas. Mixed media is perfect for initiating my creativity, and one of the reasons I love it so much. Once you learn the basics, mixed media is so freeing, forgiving, and rewarding. You play, you build layer upon layer, you respond, you adjust. You cover what does not work and find beauty in what remains.
I also was filming as I went for my current SOUL Collective cohort. As I began to work on this new mixed media skill I’ve been itching to try, I think I expected the joy and the ease to show up on cue. I expected the fun of creating to arrive naturally, the way it usually does.
But this weekend, all I experienced was failure. Over and over again.
I tried the same technique eleven times. Eleven. Or was it twelve? Thank goodness I was using individual sheets of paper to experiment on, because if this had all been happening in one of my favorite journals, I may have needed a full rescue team.
Still, after the last attempt completely fell apart, I about lost it. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears that were already threatening to spill. Then I got up, stormed out of my studio, and railed against what felt, in that moment, like my utter incompetence as an artist.
And that is when it hit me. This was not just about a failed art technique. This was about all the other places in my life where I was already feeling like a failure. And it was hitting hard, and it was hitting deep. It was soul-crushing, to be completely honest.
The Studio Has a Way of Telling the Truth
The studio can be a refuge. But it can also be a mirror. And that day, it reflected what was already inside me.
Once I got out of my head – and I think that’s an important thing to mention, getting onto something else that’s not requiring too much of you for a little while – I realized I was not only frustrated with the lack of success or with the technique. I was tired. I was discouraged. Situational depression had been falling over me like a heavy blanket in recent weeks, and I was carrying too many questions: Had I failed my family? Had I failed myself? Had I failed in my calling? Was I still doing what God had asked me to do? Or had I somehow wandered off the path and missed it?
Ladies and gentleman, this is a dangerous spiral. It starts with one failed attempt in the studio and suddenly every weak place in your soul lines up to testify against you. One “bad art” session becomes “evidence.” And don’t you know that the enemy can hit you full on with it, causing you to doubt everything: See? You are not good at this. See? You cannot keep up. See? You are not strong enough. See? You are failing here too. See? You were never meant to be a ‘real artist.’
The truth that my studio was telling me? Something along the lines of “feelings can be real without being true.” The experience of failure was real. The frustration was real. The tears were real. The grief and exhaustion was real. But the accusation that I am a failure? That is not Truth with a capital “T” ! That is not what my Father God calls me - and only HE gets to call me … well, anything.
A handful of the ‘fails’ — the rest were recycled or … uhm, really recycled. 😂
Failure Is Not the Same as Being a Failure
The big revelation that came later as I took time to consider what was really going on inside. It was simply this: there is a big difference between failing at something and being a failure. I can fail at a technique. I can fail to respond well in a hard moment. I can fail to meet every need around me. I can fail to keep my studio practice neat, steady, and inspiring.
But none of this makes me a failure – it makes me human. And it makes me an artist. Because art is full of failure. We just like to dress it up and call it “process.” We scrape back. We paint over. We tear paper and wipe off mistakes. We cover a bad layer with a better one. We turn the canvas upside down. We let something dry. We walk away. And we come back later with kinder eyes.
Some pieces do not work because they are teaching us something. Some layers are not meant to be seen in the final piece, but they still matter. They create depth. They change the surface, add character, and leave a history.
Maybe life is like that too. Maybe the failed places are not wasted when we bring them before God. Maybe He can use … even these (sigh) epic failures.
A ‘Return on Failure’
I don’t believe it’s any coincidence that I recently saw the legendary John Maxwell speak at a LifeSurge conference. He’s been a part of my spiritual journey since the early 2000s when he was my senior pastor’s mentor and would come every year to speak to our congregation. I loved hearing him ‘chat’ with us because it was never ‘preaching,’ it was like sitting at a table and having coffee with this deep-voiced, father-figure, spiritual giant unlike any other. It was always personal, always impactful, and I’d pretty much cry the moment he opened his mouth, lol.
At the conference, John talked about “Return on Failure,” and it turns out he’s recently published a book about it (that I plan to buy soon). Crap if I didn’t find myself in tears once again.
And after my experience in the studio – that had me so frustrated I wanted to quit! – John’s words began to float back to me. It was time to get before the Lord again, and I’m processing the idea of getting a return on failure. Not in a shiny, quick-fix kind of way. Pain is not a business strategy. Grief is not a cute lesson. Family wounds do not become tidy just because we decide to learn from them. But there is something incredibly valuable that happens when we stop running from failure and start asking better questions:
Not, “What is wrong with me?” But rather, “What is this teaching me?”
Not, “Why can’t I get it together?” But rather, “What needs healing or hope here?”
Not, “Am I done?” But rather, “Lord, what are You still forming in me?”
Failure can teach us when we are tired. It can show us where we are trying to control what only God can carry. It can reveal where we need help, rest, wisdom, or stronger boundaries. It can remind us that our calling is not held together by our perfect performance.
Thank God for that.
Our gifts came from Him first. Our purpose is held in His hands. And even when we feel weak, confused, or stuck in pluff mud, He is not wringing His hands over us. He is near and ready to help whenever we’re ready to ask..
Making Something Beautiful From the Mess
As artists, I think we understand something sacred about transformation. We take blank white canvas, torn paper, old pages, scraps, texture, paint, ink, and marks that make no sense at first. We layer them together. We work with what is there. We respond to the unexpected. We ruin things and rescue things. We keep going. And somehow, beauty begins to rise. Not always right away. Rarely the way we imagined or planned. But it comes.
That gives me hope.
Because the hard parts of my life are not the end of the story. They are not proof that I failed. Maybe they are raw material. Not material I would have chosen, but material God can still use and redeem. The ache can become depth. Waiting can become patience. Tears can become tenderness. Questions can become prayer.
“The failed” can become the ground where something honest is built. That does not mean I have to call hard things good. Some things are not good. Some things are painful and wrong and heavy.
But I do believe God can bring beauty out of what tried to bury us.
I believe that because I have seen Him do it. In Scripture. In art. In other people. And, by His mercy and grace, in me.
Staying Hopeful in the Studio … Without Pretending
So what to do next? I do not want cheap positivity. I do not want to slap a Bible verse over a wound and pretend it stopped bleeding. I want real hope.
The kind that can sit in the studio with tear-streaked cheeks and still whisper, “God is here.” The kind that can say, “This did not work, but I can try again.” The kind that can admit, “I am tired,” without deciding, “I am finished.”
So I am learning to look for small ways to keep going. Maybe clean one corner of the studio. Make one mark. Choose one color. Write one honest sentence in my journal. Take a walk. Ask a friend to pray. Dance in my underwear.
I can stop before I spiral, and remember that walking away for a minute is not failure. Rest is not failure. I can know in my heart of hearts that a bad day in the studio does not cancel a calling from God. And begin again. Maybe not with a full plan or with any confidence whatsoever or joy bubbling over. Maybe just with obedience and with one small, brave act…to begin again, anyway.
The Choice in ‘Begin Again … Anyway’
After I stormed out of the studio, I had choices to make. Okay, okay, okay! Yes, after I held a short little pity party, slumped over a decaf and a square of dark chocolate.
I could let that failed technique become the final word. Or I could let it become another layer. Or I could cut up all eleven ‘failures’ and incorporate them into other pieces. Or just toss them in the trash to forget they ever happened and move on.
I am still deciding, to be honest.
Some days I feel bold, empowered, and intuitive enough to paint something, anything. And some days I feel like I am standing ankle-deep in pluff mud, trying to pull one foot free without losing my creative sandals.
But even there, in the pluff mud … God is faithful. Even there, He is not done. Even there, the calling is not canceled nor is the joy extinct.
So I will keep showing up. I will keep bringing the real stuff into the studio. The grief. The questions. The frustration. The hope. The expectation of something good. The prayers I can barely say out loud. I will keep trusting that God can take what feels like failure and shape it into something unexpected, unique and quite beautiful.
Because the next painting may begin with a failed layer, and so may the next season of my life. But that does not mean the story is over. It may mean the real work has just begun. I may need to let the pluff mud have my sandals – but not my creativity. That comes with, as I begin again … anyway.
Much love, faith and creativity my friend,
xoxo,
Debra
Debra Hart is an Atlanta, Georgia area fine artist, writer, and creativity guide. She delights in encouraging creatives in their journey of discovery, skill development, and overcoming barriers to loving their best creative life. A redeemed perfectionist, she approaches her life and art from a place of mystery, grace, and love of her Savior, Jesus Christ - the best Adventurer of all.