I Create from Truth, Not Urgency

A story of one submission, many lessons, and remembering why I create

Imagine this: you’re submitting your art for the first time ever. You’re accepted. You told everyone about it — only to find out, within the next two days, that this was all but terrible mistake, an admin error.

It was my first ever submission — and for me, it was a serious one. I was scared, but I have decided to take that step, to move outside my comfort zone. I felt so ready. I needed it, I could almost feel it in my body: take up the space, let my voice be heard. I was as excited, as frightened. With shaky hands I pressed the button: submitted.

So I submitted the work, telling myself that the outcome didn’t matter, but I was hoping. I wanted it so badly. I needed a win, I was waiting for a sign that it is okay to continue, that this was my path.

Then came the email: Congratulation! Your work has been accepted!

Oh my heart! I was elevated. In that brief moment, I felt light and unstoppable. I used to keep quiet and not celebrate my achievements — hiding. But this time I thought: You know what? I’ll tell people about it. I’ll be proud. Everything in me screamed: Don’t do this! It is not safe! But I did. With a wild grin and a proud chest, I did it…

Then, just a couple of days later, another email arrived: We are terribly sorry, but there’s been a mistake…

My heart sunk.

The acceptance email had been sent out by accident — not just to me, but to many others. An admin error. Apologies!

How can I put in words how I felt after reading that?

There was an inner battle:
Rise above it. It’s just one submission. Think how far you’ve come. You’ll get through this.
…versus the horrible gremlin voice whispering:
I told you so. I wanted to keep you safe, and looked what happened. Embarrassing. Go on — tell people now. Fix it. Hide.

It went on and on in my head. Minutes felt like days. Days felt like weeks.
I wanted to cry, I wanted to hide. I wanted to erase the whole experience immediately. I didn’t want to feel it all!

But I knew one thing: the only way is through.
Feel it. Let it be. Don’t let it stop you. One day at a time. The clarity will come. You will understand — with time.

That was 2021.
It’s 2025 now. Many submissions later, accepted and rejected, I’m still here.

I have ridden the rollercoaster of seeking external validation, craving permission to create, and asking for signs that it’s okay to keep going. Over and over, I found myself riding the awful wave of imposter syndrome. And yet, all those paths lead me back to one thing that truly matters: my soul.

I had to stop seeking outside myself. I had to return inward, to find what was always there. All of the answers. All of the signs.

I needed to feel the rejection with every fibre of my being to begin asking the real questions:
Why do I want to create?
Why does this matter so deeply to me?
Why is this creative craving so strong — pulling me in, no matter what?

All of this lead me to realisation that made me cry when it landed — deeply, quietly:

My art is my soul’s language.

This is not a hobby.
Not a phase.
Not something someone else can approve of or dismiss.
It is a calling. A way of being.

A remembering.

And if it’s my soul’s speaking, how could it ever be wrong? How could this be a mistake? How could I possibly fail?

No soul chooses a story just to taste a failure.

My soul didn’t choose this path for the ache of almosts. It chose it for all the layers of the experience: the longing, the becoming, the devotion, the trust. The returning to myself, again and again.

I didn’t give up, even during the hardest moments, because I couldn’t quiet the yearning. And that yearning, that call, was louder than all the doubts, the fears, the harsh comments and the rejections.
Because I was already remembering.
Remembering the way of living that has always been mine.

I am not destined to fail. I am destined to feel. To create.
To carry the energy of being it all — through colour, texture, and movement.
To remember who I am, even when the outer markers of success, the ones defined by the modern world, are not there.

I listen to my own rhythm.
I follow my own path.
I create at my own pace. I flow.
I am slowly pealing back all the noise until I feel myself again, fully.

I'm not dreaming form a place of absence. I'm dreaming from a place of knowing. That’s not fantasy. That’s memory. That’s truth.

And I create from truth, not urgency.

If you’re walking this path too, I hope you never forget: your voice is sacred. Your art is enough. And so are you.

From my ever-curious heart to yours, Ela

A quiet return to what’s always been mine.