Navigating Uncertainty Through Creativity
Uncertainty is a constant — not a phase.
It arrives quietly in our relationships, our careers, our bodies, and even in our own sense of self.
And when it does, the world offers us two choices: resist it or try to outrun it.
But there’s a third option I’ve learned through art — one that doesn’t require control or escape.
It’s the option to create through it.
At EMP, every brushstroke is a response to uncertainty.
I rarely know what a piece will become, and I’ve stopped trying to force it.
Instead, I paint to be with the unknown — to breathe through it, to soften around it, to let it speak.
This blog is about that experience.
About how creativity has become my most honest compass through uncertain times, and how abstract art has helped me live with — and even honor — the unknown.
The Nature of Uncertainty
Uncertainty often comes disguised as discomfort.
The moment before a decision
The season after a loss
The stretch of time when nothing feels like it fits
It feels like floating. Like fog. Like a question with no clear answer.
We’re taught that these moments are problems to solve.
That we must “figure it out” before we’re allowed to rest.
But what if uncertainty isn’t a mistake — but a message?
Art has helped me see uncertainty not as a failure of direction, but as a sacred pause in clarity.
A space where something new is trying to emerge — if we’re quiet enough to hear it.
Why Creativity and Uncertainty Are Intertwined
Art and uncertainty share a nervous system.
Every time I begin a painting, I step into the unknown:
I don’t know where the piece is going
I don’t know what the first mark means
I don’t know if I’ll ruin something beautiful by continuing
And yet — I begin.
Creativity requires us to move without guarantees.
It’s the same energy that allows a dancer to improvise, a poet to start a new stanza, a musician to trust the next note.
Uncertainty and creativity both ask the same thing:
Can you stay open, even when you’re unsure?
That’s where growth lives.
That’s where truth lives.
That’s where the real art lives.
What Happens When You Create Through Uncertainty
When I’m in a period of personal uncertainty, my studio becomes more than a workspace — it becomes a sanctuary.
I don’t paint to escape what I’m feeling.
I paint to stay with it.
Confusion becomes motion
Sadness becomes color
Longing becomes texture
Grief becomes layers
The canvas holds it all.
And in holding it, I find I’m held too.
Creating doesn’t solve the uncertainty.
But it helps me make meaning within it.
And sometimes, that’s even more powerful.
Letting the Process Lead
Abstract painting has taught me that process is the path.
I don’t begin with answers — I find them by moving.
Here’s how I navigate a painting when I feel lost:
I start with a single gesture
I respond to it intuitively, not intellectually
I let one mark lead to the next
I don’t chase a “result” — I let the painting emerge
There’s a deep lesson in that.
In life, we often wait for certainty before acting.
But in art, I’ve learned to act within the uncertainty.
To move, not because I know — but because I trust.
That trust has changed how I live outside the studio.
I no longer wait for clarity to take the next step.
I move, and let clarity catch up.
Channeling Anxiety Into Creative Movement
Uncertainty often brings anxiety.
And for years, I believed I had to calm down before I could make art.
But now, I see that creating is how I calm down.
When the world feels chaotic:
I move my body
I stretch large strokes across the canvas
I pour color that reflects what I can’t yet say
I let rhythm replace rumination
Anxiety is energy.
And creative work gives that energy a place to go — not to be fixed, but to be moved.
There’s something healing about watching that energy shift from internal pressure into external expression.
It softens the body.
It clears the mind.
It quiets the noise.
Building Emotional Endurance Through Art
Creating in uncertainty builds a kind of strength that isn’t about control — it’s about capacity.
Every time I return to the studio without knowing what will happen, I teach myself:
That I can start without a plan
That I can feel lost and still find rhythm
That I can make something honest out of the unknown
This practice builds emotional endurance.
It’s not about becoming fearless — it’s about learning how to stay with fear and keep moving anyway.
And the more I practice it on the canvas, the more I carry it into my life.
Making Peace With the In-Between
There’s a phase in every painting I’ve come to know intimately — the in-between.
The first layer is down
The second one feels awkward
The whole piece looks like a mess
I’m not sure if it’s getting better or worse
This is the moment most people want to walk away.
And sometimes, I do.
But more often now, I stay.
Because I’ve learned that this in-between is where transformation lives.
It’s not pretty.
It’s not clear.
But it’s real.
And if I stay with it — if I keep showing up, breathing, listening — something shifts.
This has helped me immensely in uncertain seasons of life.
I don’t try to skip ahead.
I let the in-between be what it is — temporary, uncomfortable, and filled with potential.
Creativity as a Compass — Not a Cure
Sometimes we want creativity to fix things.
To take the uncertainty away.
To deliver answers.
But more often, what creativity offers is not a cure — it’s a compass.
It doesn’t tell me what to do.
It tells me what matters.
It reminds me of what feels alive.
It’s the thing that says:
“You’re still here.”
“You still care.”
“This feeling deserves a home.”
“Let’s see what happens next.”
That’s not resolution.
That’s relationship.
And it’s enough to keep going.
Creating Without Control
When I’m in a season of uncertainty, my temptation is to grab for control — to over-plan, over-perfect, overthink.
But the best paintings I’ve ever made were the ones I didn’t control.
They surprised me.
They led me somewhere I didn’t expect.
They made room for something deeper than I had planned.
So now, I practice creating without control.
That looks like:
Leaving space blank when I want to fill it
Trusting a color that makes me uncomfortable
Letting the piece speak louder than my ideas
And when I do this in the studio, it teaches me to do it in life.
To stop clinging.
To stop rushing.
To let things unfold.
Letting Your Work Hold You
When you create in uncertainty, something beautiful happens:
Your work begins to hold you.
It reflects your truth back to you.
It becomes a place where you’re safe to feel.
It anchors you, even when nothing else makes sense.
Some of my most meaningful paintings are not the ones that sold quickly or were praised publicly.
They’re the ones that caught me when I was falling.
The ones that let me grieve.
The ones that helped me see that I hadn’t lost myself — I was simply changing.
Your work can do that too.
If you let it.
If you meet it honestly.
For Creatives Living in Uncertainty Right Now
If you’re in a season of uncertainty — professionally, emotionally, creatively — this is your reminder:
You don’t need to have it all figured out to begin.
You don’t need to wait for clarity to move.
You don’t need to push your feelings aside to be “productive.”
Let the uncertainty be part of the process.
Let it into the room.
Let it breathe on the canvas.
Let it show you what it wants to become.
And trust — as I’ve had to trust — that something sacred lives in not knowing.
What Uncertainty Has Given Me
Over time, uncertainty has become more than something I tolerate — it’s something I work with.
It’s taught me:
That meaning is made, not given
That presence is more powerful than prediction
That the best things I’ve created started in confusion
That I can trust myself, even when the path is unclear
These are lessons the canvas gave me.
But they’ve shaped how I show up in my life — with more grace, more resilience, more willingness to begin again.
Living Like a Painting in Progress
We are all unfinished.
All in motion.
All becoming.
And that’s not a flaw — it’s the truth of being alive.
Creating through uncertainty has taught me that wholeness isn’t about having everything in order.
It’s about staying in relationship with what’s real.
At EMP, I return to the canvas not because I have answers, but because I’m willing to ask better questions.
Willing to feel more fully.
Willing to meet the unknown with presence instead of panic.
You can do that too.
You don’t have to be certain.
You just have to be here.
