Resisting the Rush

Navigating self-doubt, distraction, and the slow unfolding of a new series of paintings.

Hey lovely soul,

I’ve been noticing something in my work lately - a quiet resistance that only shows up after I begin.

You know when people say starting is the hardest part? I can’t relate. Starting, for me, is like striking a match - quick, instinctive, a small spark of excitement. It’s the tending of the flame that I’ve been struggling with. The patience. The staying.

My work has always taken time - not unusually long in the grand scheme of art - but long enough to feel slightly out of step with everything else. We’re surrounded by speed. By immediacy. Scroll, tap, instant reward. That gentle yet persistent pressure to produce, share, and move on has been quietly pulling me away from flow.

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The pull of speed

This year, I realised I hadn’t committed to a piece that lasted longer than a couple of days. If the final image didn’t begin to reveal itself almost immediately, I would drift. Start over. Look for something that felt easier, faster, more certain.

It wasn’t entirely conscious - more like a niggling habit forming in the background. But at some point, I had to admit something to myself:

The work I care about most has never come from rushing.

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Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast

So I’ve started a new series of paintings.

I don’t fully know where they’re going yet - and that’s intentional. Right now, they’re less about outcome, more about process. A way to gently push against my own habits.

A few focuses as I go:

Angles
Letting go of the familiar compositions I tend to fall back on - shifting perspective, allowing a little discomfort.

Story
Bringing back a thread of narrative. I want to challenge my ability to tell stories through a series of images.

Delay
This is the core of it.
Letting the work take the time it asks for - even when that feels inconvenient, uncomfortable, or slow.

Because every time I’ve tried to preemptively finish an illustration, something essential gets lost. The work flattens. I can see the difference now - the pieces that come from flow, and the ones that come from force.

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The doubt ditch

Halfway through this mini comic-style piece, I felt it again - that familiar restlessness. The urge to stop. To distract myself. To reach for my phone, go for a run, do anything but sit in that in-between stage where nothing feels resolved yet.

It wasn’t failing. It just wasn’t finished.
But my patience was - and my self-doubt was starting to creep in.

I recently read The Creative Act by Rick Rubin, and it felt like reading a reflection of my own creative process.

As that self-doubt settled in my chest, I remembered this line:

“Doubting yourself can lead to a sense of hopelessness, of not being inherently fit to take on the task at hand. All-or-nothing thinking is a nonstarter.
However, doubting the quality of your work might, at times, help to improve it. You can doubt your way to excellence.”

I realised a lot of my doubt is tied to me as a person, rather than the work itself. Learning to separate the two has been quietly shifting something - helping me return to the process with a little more clarity.

So instead of abandoning the piece, I returned to the intention: delayed gratification.

And then, almost without noticing, things began to settle into place. Edges softened, lines found their rhythm - and so did I.

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I’m sharing this series as it unfolds - including the slower, messier middle parts we don’t always get to see.

Because there’s something important in that, I think.

A reminder that not everything meaningful arrives fully formed.
Some things only reveal themselves if we’re willing to stay.

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I’ve also been documenting this process over on YouTube - capturing the real-time unfolding of the piece, the hesitations, the pauses, and the moments where things begin to click.

If you’d like to see it come together in motion, you can watch the full process here:

And as always, I’d love to hear from you - whether that’s your thoughts on the piece, or what “staying” looks like in your own world right now.

Until next time,