When Did We Decide We Weren’t Good Enough to Draw Anymore?

Pretty much every kid draws.

Nobody has to convince them to do it. Give a child a pencil, a crayon, a marker—or whatever happens to be lying around—and they’ll start creating something.

They might draw a person with a gigantic head, one arm longer than the other, six fingers on one hand, and legs growing directly out of the neck. The sun may have a face for some reason. The family dog might be purple and bigger than the house.

And they’re completely happy with it.

They don’t stop and wonder whether they’re talented. They aren’t worried about whether they’ve developed a recognizable style. They aren’t comparing their work to thousands of other artists online.

They’re just drawing.

So, What Happened to Us?

Somewhere along the way, many of us stopped.

I’ve always wondered when that actually happens. When do we go from creating without hesitation to deciding that drawing is something we shouldn’t do anymore?

Maybe it happens when we notice that somebody else in class can draw “better” than we can.

Maybe a teacher, parent, classmate, or sibling makes a careless comment about something we drew. It may have been nothing to them, but somehow that comment stays with us.

Maybe we simply get older and begin believing that if we aren’t naturally good at something, there’s no point in doing it.

Eventually, drawing stops being an activity and starts feeling like a test.

Is it good?

Does it look realistic?

Will anybody like it?

Could I make money doing this?

Am I even a real artist?

Children don’t begin with those questions. We teach them to ask those questions—and then we wonder why they stop creating.

When Did Drawing Become Something You Had to Earn?

You don’t have to be a professional singer to sing along with your favorite song.

You don’t have to be a trained dancer to dance around your house.

You can throw a football with your friends without believing you have a shot at the NFL.

So why do we feel like we have to be an artist to draw?

Somehow, we’ve turned drawing into an exclusive club. You’re either “good at art,” or you’re supposed to leave it to somebody who is. We act as if enjoying the process isn’t enough—as if every creative act must result in something impressive, marketable, or worthy of being posted online.

But drawing was never supposed to belong only to professional artists.

It is one of the earliest ways human beings communicate. Before children can write, they make marks. They invent symbols, creatures, people, and entire worlds. Drawing gives them a way to express things they may not yet have the words to explain.

Then adulthood arrives, and we replace that freedom with judgment.

Social Media Made the Comparison Louder

Comparison isn’t new, but social media has made it nearly impossible to escape.

You can sit down with a sketchbook, make something you genuinely enjoy, and then immediately see the work of someone who has been practicing for twenty years. Suddenly, instead of feeling proud of what you made, you feel embarrassed by it.

We forget that we’re comparing our private experiment to somebody else’s carefully selected finished piece.

We don’t see their discarded drawings, bad ideas, failed attempts, years of practice, or moments of doubt. We only see what they chose to show us.

That can make creating feel pointless before we even begin.

Likes, comments, followers, and subscribers can become another way of deciding whether something deserves to exist. Instead of asking, “Did I enjoy making this?” we ask, “Did this perform well?”

Those are two very different questions.

Maybe We Need to Draw Like Kids Again

Maybe we should draw a little more like we did when we were children.

Not by trying to make childish art, but by recovering some of that freedom.

Draw without worrying about whether it’s good.

Draw without wondering whether anybody will like it.

Draw something you never intend to post, sell, frame, or show another person.

Make an ugly drawing. Make something ridiculous. Give a person six fingers. Put a face on the sun. Draw something that makes absolutely no sense.

Make something simply because making something feels good.

The ability to draw didn’t vanish when you became an adult. Your imagination didn’t abandon you. More than likely, judgment, comparison, embarrassment, and responsibility slowly crowded it out.

But that part of you may still be there, waiting for permission to come back.

You don’t have to become an artist.

You don’t have to impress anyone.

You don’t even have to be good.

You’re allowed to pick up a pencil and draw simply because you want to.

So, I’m curious: Do you remember when you stopped drawing—and what made you stop?