When Your Work Becomes Your Identity

I was on my first vacation in two years last week.

We extended it by one extra day.

That extra day made me anxious.

Not because I wanted to go home.

Because I wanted to work.

I know I’m fortunate. I get to do something I genuinely love for a living.

But what I don’t think people understand is how difficult it can be when your work slowly becomes your identity.

When I don’t get to paint for more than a few days, I feel lost.

For years I worked day jobs and painted at night.

Back then I used to visit museums whenever I felt disconnected from myself. I thought of them as a way of refilling my cup.

To everyone else I was whatever job happened to pay my bills.

A graphic designer.

A bartender.

A receptionist.

But in my mind I was always an artist.

The museums reminded me of that.

Now my life looks very different.

People know me as an artist because it’s all I do.

That sounds wonderful, and in many ways it is.

But it comes with different pressures.

The income is less predictable.

Every painting feels like it matters.

Every week away from the studio feels like falling behind.

And there is this strange pressure to stay visible.

When you work a regular job, people see you every day.

As an artist, people mostly see what you post online.

If you disappear for too long, you start wondering whether people will remember you’re still here.

The funny thing is, I don’t actually want to be in everyone’s face.

I don’t want more time on social media.

I want more time in the studio.

I want enough freedom to quietly make the work I believe in.

That’s all I’ve ever really wanted.

It’s a lonely profession sometimes.

Even with an incredible wife, a wonderful son, and a dog who insists on daily walks, I spend most of my days alone with paintings.

Even in conversation my mind drifts.

Back to the studio.

Back to the next painting.

Back to an idea that’s slowly taking shape.

Sometimes I feel guilty about that.

Sometimes I wonder if it makes me difficult to live with.

I can imagine a dozen different futures for myself.

The flower painter exploring memory.

The portrait painter preserving family histories.

The abstract painter trying to help people see the world a little differently.

The writer.

The designer.

For years I thought I had to choose one.

Lately I’ve started wondering if choosing was never the point.

Maybe all of those things are simply different ways of asking the same questions.

Different paths leading toward the same destination.

I want to be all of those artists.

But mostly…

I just want to paint.