Give Yourself Time

I still remember the smell of my art school during summer break—the sweet scent of paint and the sour notes of canvas that lingered in the empty hallways. It was a scent that filled me with both excitement and anxiety. Excitement for the possibility of creation, but anxiety born from the constant feeling of being behind.

Spring break, summer holidays, winter breaks—I was always there, hunched over an unfinished piece, racing against the clock. I never had enough time to finish my projects. I barely had enough not to fail.

My academic art education was rigorous and fearful, like many things in Russia; leaving me little room to breathe. Every time I wasn't finished with my painting before the bell rang or couldn't get the pot fully done by the time for glazing, I felt sick to my stomach. Every time, it was considered a failure. The idea that I just needed a bit of extra time because I wanted to put more creativity into my work, was never an option. This instilled in me a fear of failure, a belief that I could never truly catch up. Every time, near the deadline, I felt like I was short of breath, anxiety would cripple me, and poof-all the creativity was gone; my inner artist would leave the building.

That was until I went to the US and met Lynne Beseau, my American art teacher. Studying under her, I finally had the chance to give myself time. Finishing projects on Christmas break wasn't a burden anymore; it was a choice, an option given to me with encouragement and a smile. With music blasting and no school bells interrupting, I was finishing my paintings on the floor of my host family's house, — and for the first time, I had the space to find my flow.?

As I entered the business world, I found myself on a familiar treadmill? — ?again. My entrepreneurial spirit thrived on the fast pace and lofty goals. I built brands, created products, told stories that resonated. I loved how my brain worked in that mode, generating thousands of ideas per second, making hundreds of decisions. But as the companies grew, so did the pressure. Meetings and documents replaced brainstorming sessions, and investors demanded changes that felt at odds with my vision. I felt my creativity withering, replaced by a constant sense of running behind. I wasn't an artist anymore; I was a machine.

I tried to convince myself that this was success, that this was what I had worked towards. But the ache inside me grew. I yearned to create with emotion and meaning, to build something that touched souls. But with every idea my inner artist would come up with, my little scared 'failure' soul would cripple. There was, once again, not enough time. So I would have to make a choice—artistry or efficiency. And we had a business to build, right? No time for creativity here; only troubleshooting, only hardcore. So the corner-cutting strategies would come into play in the sake of running the business.

But the thing is when you start something meaningful from your soul and then make a turn towards business goals rather than creating meaning, —people actually notice. You'd think that all that matters in building a business is an actual product and its function. It turns out, it's not how it works. We, as human beings, are emotional and sensual. We feel lots more than we think and decide intelligently.

And with every negative comment and every criticism of the products or service, it cut me deep. I didn't realize then how much scarcity that experience created within me. I thought growing thicker skin would fix it, but the hurt lingered. I needed time to mourn those wounds, to build boundaries. But I didn't give myself that time. I kept pushing until I felt suffocated by the very business I built.

Things take as long as they take. It's a lesson I've learned the hard way. I used to live in the illusion that I could outsmart time, bypass the journey, and reach the destination sooner with enough hustle. But every time I took a shortcut, it haunted me. The unresolved emotions, the neglected relationships, the unattended parts of myself—they always came back, often at the worst possible times.

When war broke out in 2022, I felt that familiar panic rising. I was just starting to piece things together in a new country, and suddenly I had to start running again. But this time, I knew I couldn't sustain that pace. I've been slowly rebuilding since, giving myself the time and space I denied myself for so long. It's not easy—I still chafe at how slowly things progress, and how long it takes to build something meaningful. But I know now that shortcuts only lead to more pain. I'm doing the work, I'm doing the healing, and I'm doing the creating. And this time, I'm doing it on my terms.

I've come to understand that giving myself time is not a luxury; it's a necessity. It is time to listen to my soul, to mourn my losses, and to build meaningful boundaries. Time to gain skills, to do the work, and to create from a place of depth. I've learned that success without space to breathe, without room for flow, is not success at all. It's just another form of suffocation.

I'm back, baby. Back to the girl who used to paint giant canvases on the floor, lost in the music and the moment. Back to the girl who wrote stories that poured from her heart. I'm back, and this time, I'm giving myself the time.