Artists live to create. We find inspiration in ordinary things, using art to make sense of the world around us. In fact, for many of us, our art is our interpretation of our life—our unique perspective or viewpoint. Each artist has their own way of doing this, and along with that, their own reasons. But for all of us, it’s personal.

And yet, it’s not. Most of us make art to share, on some level. Maybe we aren’t painting for the next gallery exhibit, or writing a song for the next stadium tour, but most artists want to connect to other people through our art. We want it to find eyes to see it or ears to hear it.

So, over time, that leaves most artists with the question of how to measure the success of our art. There are conventional ways of doing that, which include making money from art, having adoring fans, or how many likes you got on social media.

Then there are inward signs of how successful our art is—how we felt making it, how it grabs us after, the therapy it offered, or what we may have learned in the process. Does it put a smile on our face? Were we changed by creating it?

Our ability to find some of these internal cues is based, in part, on our opinion of where our art may come from. For me, who feels art comes from a sacred place and that inspiration travels through us, I can’t help but feel that I am not in charge of the outcome. I think that art is bigger than any one of us, and so what becomes of it is the same—beyond my reach.

When I’m in touch with that foundation, I am at peace with whatever the art does once it leaves me. And I’m able to zoom in on my interior—the energetics of receiving, translating, and transmuting an idea into something completely my own. My job is just to pay attention to the magnets and ride the wave when it comes.

But, as a human, there are times when I forget all that and become completely focused on how it was received—or not—by an audience. I wonder why more people didn’t think it was amazing. I may cling to one word a critic said. Or worse, fail to share what I’ve created because my inner critic bullied me into hiding it away.

These moments of doubt are times when my artist’s journal, a trusted friend, or even my deeper spiritual practice become necessary. I need honesty. I need self-compassion, otherwise I would give up. The resilience to stick with our art requires being kind to ourselves. We need a practice that supports us, that brings us to our center, that secures us in our roots.

In truth, everything that supports our art is everything that supports our soul in a broader sense—meditation, introspection, time alone, walks in nature, good health, balance, the pursuit of joy, and being surrounded by love. Doing the work in our life will bring us to a more intimate and powerful place with our art.

At this threshold, we realize that we are our own compass. We recognize that our art comes through us because it’s meant to be. And, in that process, an alchemy happens that gives our art a shape that resembles us. It could be no other way. Understanding our art comes from understanding ourselves.

Feeling this way leaves us to consider what making an impact looks like for us. Only I can say what success looks like for my art. The answers that come from that questioning are complex and rich, and they change over time as I evolve. I also realize that some of the markers of achievement I’m really looking for have been right under my nose the whole time. Maybe what’s meaningful to me is nuanced, and vast, and personal.

At the end of the day, I’m left to satisfy myself. Even if the bank account is overflowing, or the fans are endlessly cheering, I still have to determine how I felt about it. If I relinquish that power to anyone else, I’ll never be satisfied. No accolade will ever quench my thirst. But if I acknowledge that the authority and the responsibility to create my art rests with me alone, I’ll feel emboldened to do so with authenticity.

The result is, at times, humbling—to realize that the idea, inspiration, Universe, or fate chose me. I just have to say yes. And that I’m the only one in the audience who needs to like it. So we make art—we fall down and get up again. Some days are better than others. But any day that a born creator creates, we are filled with the full potential of being fully alive.

Many blessings,

tyler