The Lie
of “Healing Through Art”
of “Healing Through Art”
“Creativity heals,” say people who’ve already survived the breakdown.
In reality, it doesn’t heal — it exposes. Like a good therapist, art doesn’t make things easier — it forces you to look into the corners of your brain that have been burning for years.
But here’s the paradox: it’s exactly when you’re hopelessly out of shape — broken, drained, incapable of productivity or confidence — that you have a chance to create something real. Not “content,” not a “product,” but that inner archaeology of feelings. Why? Because suffering isn’t the enemy of creativity — it’s the engine. Not in the Hollywood sense of the drunk genius writing a masterpiece, but in the real one — when you’re sitting in a robe, not knowing who you are, but still writing something anyway.
Art begins where comfort ends
We’ve been sold the myth that creativity blooms in sunlight — the “follow your passion” industrial complex.
But the truth is, most art crawls out of the dark. Van Gogh didn’t paint “Starry Night” because he was thriving; he painted it because the walls were closing in. Every “self-care” influencer wants to turn your breakdown into a productivity hack, but pain doesn’t want to be optimized. It just wants out.
But the truth is, most art crawls out of the dark. Van Gogh didn’t paint “Starry Night” because he was thriving; he painted it because the walls were closing in. Every “self-care” influencer wants to turn your breakdown into a productivity hack, but pain doesn’t want to be optimized. It just wants out.
The dirty secret? You don’t need to be healed to create — you need to be honest.
That’s why your worst day can sound better than your best one. The mess is the point; it’s where the heartbeat lives. And in a world obsessed with filters, raw emotion has become the last authentic luxury.
Psychologists have long proven that the link between creativity and emotional instability is not a myth. Back in 1987, Nancy Andreasen, a neuropsychiatrist from the University of Iowa, studied writers and discovered that more than 80% of them suffered from clinical disorders — from depression to bipolar spectrum conditions. Later, this connection was confirmed by neurophysiological research: creative people really do show increased activity in associative areas of the brain, where emotions and imagination cross in a short circuit.
But this isn’t about romanticizing pain. It’s about the fact that creative action — whether it’s writing, music, painting, or a TikTok video — works like a psychological defibrillator. In moments when therapy is silent and pills don’t work, the act of creation becomes a way to check if you still exist at all.
Modern culture has only amplified this effect. We live in an era where everything is a performance. Even personal pain has to be edited and posted in Reels. And here’s where the conflict begins: if art heals, why does all this constant self-expression make everyone feel worse?
The problem isn’t that creativity stopped healing. The problem is that we confused the process with the result.
Psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (the guy who came up with the concept of “flow”) wrote that true creativity happens when a person is fully immersed in action, losing ego and time. This state is incompatible with self-promotion. And yet we live in a culture where even pain must have an SMM plan.
Research by neuropsychologist Kelly Lamonte from UCLA showed that during a creative flow state, activity in the prefrontal cortex — the part of the brain responsible for self-criticism and anxiety — decreases. That’s why drawing, music, or writing can actually reduce cortisol levels and stabilize emotional states. But to get there, you have to let go of control — which is almost an impossible luxury for a modern human.
Psychotherapist Julie Hirsch, author of Art as Therapy for the Anxious Mind, puts it simply: “Art doesn’t heal pain — it gives it a shape.” And that’s the magic. Because when you stop resisting and just create, your chaos becomes material. In those moments, the brain rewires itself, forming a sense of meaning — and that very lack of meaning is often what leads to depression in the first place.
So yes, creativity isn’t medicine, it’s a side effect of fighting for meaning. And yes, sometimes you have to be in the mud to tell the truth.
Look at any artist whose work truly resonates. Billie Eilish turns anxiety into a brand, Kanye West turns mania into a sermon, and Trent Reznor (Nine Inch Nails) literally built a career on the sound of emotional collapse.
Now compare that with millions of “mindful” influencers drawing mandalas and writing “I finally chose myself.” Authenticity can’t be simulated — imperfection always gives it away.
Think of the Coen brothers’ Inside Llewyn Davis. The main character is a talented musician, but everything in his life goes to hell. And it’s this failure that makes the film honest. It’s not about fame — it’s about the absurdity of trying to survive in an industry where pain doesn’t sell unless it’s branded.
In the 2020s, art once again became a place where you can admit you feel bad — but only if it looks aesthetically pleasing. Hence the TikTok trends of the “sad girl aesthetic,” Lana Del Rey’s post-pop romanticism, and the fetishization of melancholy among Gen Z. We’ve learned to talk about suffering again, but now it comes in the format of a moodboard. And maybe that’s therapy too — just glossy in the age of likes.
We’re at the peak of “mindfulness fatigue.” Every app offers breathing practices, gratitude journals, and neuro-guided meditations. But anxiety keeps rising. Because the psyche doesn’t like being optimized.
And this is where art returns as human territory. Without KPIs, without productivity. Creation not for success, but for contact with reality. It’s an act of resistance in a world that demands efficiency.
If we don’t allow ourselves to create without purpose, burnout becomes not a phase but a lifestyle.
A 2023 Harvard Medical School study showed that regular creative activity — writing, singing, sculpting — reduces depression levels by 29% and improves cognitive function. But the most important part: it restores a sense of agency. That is, the feeling that you’re not just reacting to life, but actually creating something inside it.
If we don’t, we’ll end up in a culture of simulated feelings. People who “work on themselves” instead of simply living. And then art will finally turn into fitness for the brain.
Want creativity to heal you? Stop expecting results from it.
Write badly. Paint crookedly. Dance stupidly. Do it not for posting, but for feeling alive. Because real art isn’t born from the idea of being seen — it’s born from the need to stay sane.
Don’t look for meaning. It’ll find you — usually somewhere between your fifth attempt to draw a cat and suddenly crying in the shower.
And if things get even worse in the process — congratulations, you’re alive.
Because creativity is a side effect of still feeling something.
But this isn’t about romanticizing pain. It’s about the fact that creative action — whether it’s writing, music, painting, or a TikTok video — works like a psychological defibrillator. In moments when therapy is silent and pills don’t work, the act of creation becomes a way to check if you still exist at all.
Modern culture has only amplified this effect. We live in an era where everything is a performance. Even personal pain has to be edited and posted in Reels. And here’s where the conflict begins: if art heals, why does all this constant self-expression make everyone feel worse?
The problem isn’t that creativity stopped healing. The problem is that we confused the process with the result.
Psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (the guy who came up with the concept of “flow”) wrote that true creativity happens when a person is fully immersed in action, losing ego and time. This state is incompatible with self-promotion. And yet we live in a culture where even pain must have an SMM plan.
Research by neuropsychologist Kelly Lamonte from UCLA showed that during a creative flow state, activity in the prefrontal cortex — the part of the brain responsible for self-criticism and anxiety — decreases. That’s why drawing, music, or writing can actually reduce cortisol levels and stabilize emotional states. But to get there, you have to let go of control — which is almost an impossible luxury for a modern human.
Psychotherapist Julie Hirsch, author of Art as Therapy for the Anxious Mind, puts it simply: “Art doesn’t heal pain — it gives it a shape.” And that’s the magic. Because when you stop resisting and just create, your chaos becomes material. In those moments, the brain rewires itself, forming a sense of meaning — and that very lack of meaning is often what leads to depression in the first place.
So yes, creativity isn’t medicine, it’s a side effect of fighting for meaning. And yes, sometimes you have to be in the mud to tell the truth.
Look at any artist whose work truly resonates. Billie Eilish turns anxiety into a brand, Kanye West turns mania into a sermon, and Trent Reznor (Nine Inch Nails) literally built a career on the sound of emotional collapse.
Now compare that with millions of “mindful” influencers drawing mandalas and writing “I finally chose myself.” Authenticity can’t be simulated — imperfection always gives it away.
Think of the Coen brothers’ Inside Llewyn Davis. The main character is a talented musician, but everything in his life goes to hell. And it’s this failure that makes the film honest. It’s not about fame — it’s about the absurdity of trying to survive in an industry where pain doesn’t sell unless it’s branded.
In the 2020s, art once again became a place where you can admit you feel bad — but only if it looks aesthetically pleasing. Hence the TikTok trends of the “sad girl aesthetic,” Lana Del Rey’s post-pop romanticism, and the fetishization of melancholy among Gen Z. We’ve learned to talk about suffering again, but now it comes in the format of a moodboard. And maybe that’s therapy too — just glossy in the age of likes.
We’re at the peak of “mindfulness fatigue.” Every app offers breathing practices, gratitude journals, and neuro-guided meditations. But anxiety keeps rising. Because the psyche doesn’t like being optimized.
And this is where art returns as human territory. Without KPIs, without productivity. Creation not for success, but for contact with reality. It’s an act of resistance in a world that demands efficiency.
If we don’t allow ourselves to create without purpose, burnout becomes not a phase but a lifestyle.
A 2023 Harvard Medical School study showed that regular creative activity — writing, singing, sculpting — reduces depression levels by 29% and improves cognitive function. But the most important part: it restores a sense of agency. That is, the feeling that you’re not just reacting to life, but actually creating something inside it.
If we don’t, we’ll end up in a culture of simulated feelings. People who “work on themselves” instead of simply living. And then art will finally turn into fitness for the brain.
Want creativity to heal you? Stop expecting results from it.
Write badly. Paint crookedly. Dance stupidly. Do it not for posting, but for feeling alive. Because real art isn’t born from the idea of being seen — it’s born from the need to stay sane.
- Three simple steps (or at least honest ones):
- Delete Pinterest. Your feelings don’t have to be aesthetic.
- Turn boredom into a tool — the brain heals when it has nothing to do.
Don’t look for meaning. It’ll find you — usually somewhere between your fifth attempt to draw a cat and suddenly crying in the shower.
And if things get even worse in the process — congratulations, you’re alive.
Because creativity is a side effect of still feeling something.
