Talent is just the beginning.
It is the small seed, nurtured by discipline, watered by consistency, and blooming in the soil of effort.
We covet what others do.
We resign ourselves to being unremarkable, not-very-good, and lacking.
We like to tell other people that we’ll never be good at The Thing.
But we can, if we choose.
What we don’t see of talented people is the hours of work that goes into the skill.
Careful curation of another painting, another failed sewing project, a photograph that didn’t quite capture the image of the imaginer, a hoarse voice from being pushed so hard.
We don’t see the tears of frustration, or the constant threats of giving up.
The bad backs.
The sore muscles.
The time deemed as wasted with nothing to show.
The feeling of lacking progress.
The anger at slow learning.
The sadness at another mistake.
The silent smile of success…
It’s not talent.
It’s deeper than that.
It’s something that’s birthed in pain, anguish, joy, and tears.
This creation that demanded to be born,
the idea that chose us as the vessel to come into this world,
that kicked incessantly within us day-by-day until we took action.
It never feels like a choice; it feels like an obligation.
The unrelenting, intuitive knowing that we must, we must, we must…
Then, in the aftermath, when we declare it finished.
We show the world, they say we are talented, but we know it is more than that.
And then an idea whispers to us, and we begin again.