Insecurities are sneaky little gremlins, aren’t they? One minute, I’m head over heels for a piece I just finished—full of passion, color, and energy—and the next, I’m wondering why everyone else is painting white pines and serene blue waters. Standing at an art event, watching shoppers gravitate toward calm, peaceful artwork for their walls, I start hearing those little whispers: What am I doing? Why am I doing this? This is crazy.

It’s like those feelings wait for the late afternoon, when I’m already tired, to stage their ambush. But here’s the thing—by the next morning, those doubts are toast. A new day dawns, and I’m excited for my life, art, and chosen path. What keeps me centered during those moments of doubt that seem to surface every three weeks or so?

The Dewey Decimal System.

(Stick with me here.)

Imagine a library. Not a sleek, modern one with espresso machines humming in the background, but a cozy, old-school one. That library is home to the Dewey Decimal System (mine: 3rd grade, Thursday library day, metal card cabinets, and yellowed check out card) organizing topics into 10 broad categories. Each category splits into subcategories, which split again, and again. Some books are bestsellers, sure, but plenty aren’t. They don’t have to be—they have their people. (Trixie Belden anyone?)

And isn’t art like that? (Actually, erase the question mark. I tell myself this.)

Not everyone’s bookshelf—or wall—is going to hold my work. Some people gravitate toward peaceful pastels or quiet landscapes, while I’m out here throwing passionate bursts of color and quirky compositions onto my canvas. But here’s the beauty of it: just like there’s a reader for every book in that library, there’s someone whose heart will skip a beat when they see my art.

So I get up. Have my coffee. (Maybe scroll a bit while the dog does his rounds.) And show up in the studio. Follow my passion.

If you’ve ever felt the prick of comparison at an art event, just remember: not every book makes the bestseller list, but every book deserves a place on its shelf. And every piece of art—yours, mine, and everyone’s—has a story to tell and an audience waiting to love it.

Oh — please tell me how you navigate these voices. I could use some backup rah-rah.

- Kristi