Creative addiction

I read a lot of books. All non-fiction. I sometimes wonder why, especially as a creative, I can’t get into these richly-described, yet imaginary characters or settings. Even when the writing is stellar, I just don’t seem to care about people who don’t really exist. (The same does not apply to TV shows or movies, though. I care deeply about Elizabeth and Phillip Jennings from The Americans, and was so relieved when one of them was reincarnated on The Diplomat. Keri Russell, I heart you.)

My latest reading endeavour in the land of non-imaginary things is “Love and Work: How to Find What You Love, Love What You Do, and Do It for the Rest of Your Life” by Marcus Buckingham. He’s the creator of StandOut Strengths, a coaching assessment/tool that I’ve been experimenting with at work. I’ve been on a mission to find new ways to help my team lean into what they enjoy most, rather than focusing on tasks or competencies that are simply expected of them, but may actually clash with their true nature. (Perhaps this is more of a reflection of what I’m doing for myself than anything else, but I’ll leave that to my therapist to help unpack.)

This morning, while sitting on my couch with my 6am coffee, I ran across a line that struck me so intensely, I read it three times before going back to highlight it. Then, I emailed it to myself for safe keeping.

“When you step into things you love, you will feel fear. That’s not just OK, it’s fundamental. So fundamental, in fact, that if you’re doing something and you feel no fear, then you’ve lost your love.”

Ouch.

“If you’re doing something and you feel no fear, then you’ve lost your love.”

Let me tell you why this one stung.

Back in 2017, when I was still in the thick of my “proving” days, I wrote a blog post for the 3% Movement called “You are not a brand. You are a person.” It was a raw and real argument against all of the personal branding bullshit that was flooding the professional world at the time, encouraging people to market themselves like products, because god-forbid we actually show up as our imperfect selves. Of course, even with my backlash against personal branding culture, I was still being affected by it myself.

In my piece, I talk about how much harder I felt like I had to work throughout my career to prove that I was worthy of getting good assignments. To prove that I could “cut it” in a male-dominated industry. That I wasn’t too young, or too quiet, or too much, or not enough, to measure up to someone else’s yard stick of what a “great creative” should be.

At the end of the blog, after I make a hell of a convincing argument for just doing what you love, without all the proving or fake personas, I close with a statement that I honestly didn’t know would turn out to be one of the truest things I’ve ever written about myself:

The reason we all got into this business in the first place was to do amazing creative work that’s personally fulfilling and rewarding. If that’s no longer your North Star, it’s completely okay, and maybe it’s time for a change. But if it’s still the reason you get up and go to work every day, then the only brand you need to be is the one that stands for yourself.

As I sit here and write this, I have been a creative in advertising for 20 years. It has not only been my profession and my livelihood, but also my pride and my identity. When I ask myself if I still feel personally fulfilled or rewarded by the work, though—if doing “amazing creative” is still my North Star—the answer is a very clear, and very honest…

No.

It would seem that in the words of Marcus Buckingham, that I have lost my love.

My team and I are in the middle of a big review pitch right now for a very significant client who’s been with our agency for 5+ years. I adore their team, and have done some of the best work of my career for them. But despite the very real possibility of losing their business, I feel no fear. There is no hunger in my belly, no sleepless nights working on concepts, no anxiety about getting every last detail right. I’m not worried about proving our worth, or running through different feedback scenarios in my head to proactively squash them. I am simply…doing the work.

I am indifferent. Or maybe a better word is equanimous.

And maybe, my equanimity is actually a sign that I am finally free.

Buckingham equates love to what we feel about the things that drive us. Our passions, our obsessions, our strengths. The activities and pursuits that launch us into glorious states of flow, where time seems irrelevant, where we’re swept-up in the waves of challenge and enjoyment and genius all at once. He offers that fear is a key part of this, too, because if you’re not afraid of losing the thing you love, then maybe you don’t really love it after all.

I get where he’s coming from. But I have another possibility to explore.

What if this thing, where time seems irrelevant, where you feel challenged and driven and your whole being becomes so enraptured that you simply can’t put it down…

What if what you’re feeling isn’t actually love at all?

What if sometimes, it’s really addiction?

According to the NIH, “addiction is a term that means compulsive physiological need for and use of a habit-forming substance.” In this definition, they’re referencing addictions to a physical substance, like drugs, or alcohol, or food. However, Harvard Medical School also recognizes that activities like gambling, or sex, or exercise, can be habit-forming in the same destructive ways. (As someone who has experienced disordered eating and anorexia athletica, I can attest to this one.) Harvard states that “for addiction to develop, the drug or activity must shift a person's subjective experience in a desirable direction — feeling good or feeling better.”

What activities led to “feeling good” for me for all those years as a creative in advertising?

Proving my worth. Pushing harder. Working longer. Earning recognition. Winning awards. Constantly pursuing the next project, the next high of coming up with a concept so brilliant, so unique, that I was convinced I was changing the world.

I wasn’t changing the world, of course.

I was just addicted to the feeling of being worthy. Of hearing someone else tell me that I was doing a good job. Of being validated. Of receiving love from someone or something outside myself, because I sure as hell wasn’t feeling it from the inside.

Did I ever really “love” being a creative? Or was the fear that I felt—the one that Marcus Buckingham believes is a sign of love—simply the fear of what I would be without that external validation? And the best way I knew how to keep that fear at bay was through using professional success as my drug?

It’s a really complex question that I don’t have the answer to. But what I do know right now is this:

At almost 41 years old, I am finally on the path to loving myself from the inside. And as that intrinsic love grows, my love for the outside stuff, like “doing amazing creative work that’s personally rewarding and fulfilling,” is becoming less and less true. When I wrote those words 6 years ago, I really believed that my creative work was fueling my soul. That I needed it to thrive. But now I have to wonder if that was just the addiction talking.

Maybe I haven’t “lost my love” for what I do, but actually “found my love” for myself.

These days, I’m finding new professional paths that light me up. They’re creative, but in an entirely different way. Ways that don’t require outside validation, and are innately human. Leadership training. Coaching. Wellbeing. Learning + Development. With all of this shifting, I’m realizing that my 34-year-old self gave some pretty stellar advice: since doing advertising creative work is no longer my North Star, it might be time for a change.

I still hope we win this pitch that my team and I are working on. But I’m not going to abuse myself, or anyone else, to make that happen. There’s no addiction this time. Just real, personal, love.