Starving Artist
Building a life where creativity doesn’t cost you your well-being
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the phrase “starving artist.”
It’s said so casually, like it’s just part of the deal.
Like if you want to make art, you’re supposed to struggle.
Supposed to be broke.
Supposed to sacrifice your safety, your stability, your nervous system.
Like suffering is somehow proof that you’re serious.
And honestly… I hate that narrative.
Because the more I live this life, the more I realize being an artist isn’t just creative - it’s a business. You can be the most gifted songwriter in the world, have the most unique voice, work harder than anyone else… and none of it matters if you don’t understand how to get your work in front of people.
Talent isn’t enough.
And no one really prepares you for that part.
So you end up stuck in this weird in-between - working nonstop, hoping something breaks through, feeling like you’re always almost there. Holding onto this tiny grain of hope while watching other people who seem to “know the system” move ahead.
It can start to feel powerless.
Like someone else is pulling the strings.
And from a mental health perspective… that’s dangerous.
Because language shapes belief.
And belief shapes identity.
If you keep calling yourself a starving artist, eventually you start living like one.
You start expecting less.
Settling.
Overgiving.
Undercharging.
Letting people exploit you because you think, “this is just how it is.”
You start believing you need someone else to save you. A label. A manager. A gatekeeper. Anyone but yourself.
As a therapist, I see this all the time - the stories we repeat become self-fulfilling. When we internalize struggle as inevitable, we stop looking for alternatives. We stop believing we’re allowed to thrive.
“Starving” isn’t romantic.
It’s survival mode.
And survival mode is not where creativity lives.
When you’re in survival, your brain isn’t dreaming or experimenting or playing. It’s just trying to stay afloat. Paying bills. Proving yourself. Not burning out.
That’s not art.
That’s stress.
And I’ve seen what that does to people.
I’ve watched bright, passionate creatives slowly lose the light in their eyes. I’ve seen people tolerate terrible treatment just to “make it.” I’ve seen artists shrink themselves because someone with more followers or more money made them feel small.
It breaks my heart.
Because art is healing. It’s expression. It’s life force.
Why did we start believing we have to suffer to do it?
Why did we accept that exhaustion and scarcity are part of the job description?
I don’t buy it.
I don’t believe we’re meant to starve for our dreams.
I believe we’re meant to build lives that support our creativity, not drain it.
I want to work smart.
I want to understand the system.
I want to find the loopholes.
I want to thrive — and help other artists thrive too.
Not just survive.
This past year, Rayne and I started taking that seriously.
We looked at our lives and realized something hard: some of the people around us weren’t aligned with who we’re becoming. And being around the wrong energy was quietly killing our love for creating.
So we made space.
It was scary at first — just the two of us, figuring it out alone. But it also felt lighter. Clearer. More honest.
And for the first time in a while, making music felt fun again.
That’s how I knew we were on the right track.
Because when you start losing your love for art, something’s off.
And more often than not, it’s not you — it’s your environment.
So maybe we don’t need to be starving artists.
Maybe we just need better systems.
Better boundaries.
Better people around us.
Better stories.
Maybe we’re allowed to be thriving artists instead.
I don’t have all the answers yet. But we’re figuring it out in real time — and I want to share everything we learn along the way.
If you’re on this path too, you’re not alone.
We’re building something better.
