There’s a common misconception that artistic talent is something you're simply born with as if it’s some kind of magical, second-nature gift bestowed upon a lucky few.
People assume that if you’re good at something creative, it must come effortlessly to you. I’ve experienced this throughout my career, and while I know I have creative instincts, the reality is far more complex.
The truth is, creativity isn’t exclusive to a “gifted elite class.” Yes, certain personality traits might make someone more drawn to artistic pursuits, but I genuinely believe everyone is an artist. I know that can sound a little “woo-woo,” and I’m not saying everything in the world qualifies as art. But when we box creativity into rigid categories or reserve it for certain “genius” types, we’re doing the world a disservice.
As an artist and communications professional, I’ve seen how people perceive my skills as innate, something I “just do well.” What they don’t see is the work. And when others try to replicate something I’ve done, whether it’s writing a script or shooting a short video, they’re often shocked by how challenging it actually is. That disconnect, between perception and reality, can be frustrating.
Preparing for the Stage: The Labor Behind the Performance
Not long ago, I was booked for a live performance. Although I’ve always included music in my creative toolkit, it had been a while since I’d performed live, and this time it was a Hip-Hop and Spoken Word show—definitely a high-energy, high-prep kind of gig.
To pull this off, I put in 20 to 30 hours of labor. That included building my musical set, administrative tasks like finding a DJ, choosing and editing performance tracks, and most critically—memorizing 10 to 15 short songs and poems. Memorization wasn’t just about recall—it was about internalizing the words, finding the emotion behind each line, and building the mental calm to deliver them without freezing up.
During this month of prep, I was also working full-time and waking up at the crack of dawn to attend an hour of boxing boot camp. I’d ride my bike to the gym while listening to my lyrics, gradually layering in rhythm, emotion, and vocal inflection. Many musicians use exercise to help them prepare for live performance because it aligns breathing to sound, story and movement.
Still, somewhere along the way, I got this gut feeling that something might go wrong. It was bothering me. I’m no stranger to anxiety, but this wasn’t a catastrophic spiral—it was quieter, more intuitive. What was happening?
I recently listened to a Magical Overthinkers podcast describe the difference between anxiety and intuition like this: anxiety is loud and panicky, while intuition is subtle, a quiet nudge.
This felt like the latter.
Chaos on the Stage
The day of the performance arrived—and that subtle feeling? It wasn’t wrong.
Although I had done a sound check, the band that performed before me began dismantling their equipment during my set. My sound changed drastically. I couldn’t hear myself. There was no monitor. My intricate lyrics, which I had worked so hard to memorize, were suddenly harder to deliver.
To top it off, my set got cut short from the agreed 30 minutes. Songs dropped off. The DJ struggled to play my tracks because of sudden tech changes. It was chaos. And yet, I kept going.
I could’ve thrown up my hands, walked off stage, or refused to continue. Many performers would have, especially with this many issues. But I didn’t. Because I also knew something else: most of the audience wouldn’t know what went wrong behind the scenes. They would judge the set based on what they saw, not the obstacles I faced.
Side note: This explains why, at major concerts, musical acts sometimes delay their sets. They’re waiting until the sound meets a certain standard. They have teams to back them up, to handle all the chaos around them, so they can just focus on rocking a stage. Me? I’m still building that infrastructure.
Lessons in Labor and Boundaries
So why am I telling you all this? Well, I learned something.
My experience reminded me that people might never fully understand the labor behind your art. And that’s okay. You need to understand it. You need to respect it. And most importantly, you need to protect it.
As artists, we have to set boundaries, acknowledge our expertise, and refuse to let our work be minimized just because it looks easy. That’s something I’m taking with me into every performance, every project, every creative endeavor.
Let’s keep creating. Let’s keep sharing the process. And let’s remind ourselves, and others, that art is labor. Art is hours of edits, of tossed out ideas, of practice. Art is research, it is pondering, it requires memorizing lyrics, stretching physical muscles and creative ones too. Art is beautiful, vulnerable, emotional labor and it needs to be acknowledged.
(Video: A powerful movement from my chaotic set.)
Recently, I had one of those rare, grounding experiences that reminded me just how powerful a vocal performance can be. I went to an event at Ciel Studios, a beautiful performance and office space in Berkeley, and saw an artist, Gayathri Krishnan, who absolutely blew me away.
Her exquisite voice has roots in ancient South Asian technique, but her voice moves effortlessly through R&B as well. She’s also an amazing dancer—an all-around powerhouse of talent. As I watched her, I could see the work behind every note and movement. It wasn’t just skill, it was something deeper. It felt like ancestral expertise, like something flowing through generations. I later learned her father is also a singer, and you could feel that lineage alive in her performance.
Art That Anchors You
After the show, I had the chance to meet Gayathri, take a few photos, and share something I felt strongly in the moment. Now, my friends always joke about this, but I take pride in my ability to give exceptional affirmations. And this time was no different.
I told her, “I’ve been feeling so untethered lately. So much havoc, so much uncertainty, especially with all the painful happening in the world. But your performance brought me back down to earth. Your voice had this mezmorizing, anchoring impact on me. It reminded me what it feels like to be fully present. To feel like I’m part of something.”
There’s something powerful about telling artists what their work does for you. Not just that it was some pretty product that brightened an empty room. We should be precise in our acknowledgments. It’s easy to forget that they often don’t hear that enough, or they only hear it in passing.
(Video: Gayathri performing live at Ciel Studios)
Keep Showing Up
So that’s it. A beautiful night of music, movement, connection and a reminder that art doesn’t just entertain us. It can center us. It can call us back to ourselves. And when we tell artists the truth about how their work affects us (especially with money), we become part of that creative exchange.
To the artist who brought me back to presence:
keep doing what you’re doing. Never stop.