Word by Freya Bennett
Lately, I’ve found myself reflecting on creativity—a force that has always been at the heart of who I am. Creativity is something I deeply value, both in myself and others, and it’s joy is a gift I hope to pass on to my daughters. Yet, as technology has gradually woven itself into every aspect of our lives, I’ve noticed my creativity retreating, as if cowering from the obnoxious noise of the digital age.
Don’t get me wrong, technology has brought incredible advancements, and there’s no shortage of creativity born from it. However, the constant lure of screens and the addictive pull of endless scrolling has turned my brain into a drooling, algorithm-enslaved mush. I find myself mourning the loss of spaciousness that once allowed my mind to wander freely.
I think back to my teenage years, a time when boredom was a frequent companion and the only screen in sight was my tiny TV complete with bunny ears antenna (which now feels almost prehistoric). I’d sit in my room, surrounded by silence, and ideas would drift about me—unbidden and pure. That was the privilege of growing up before smartphones. Boredom, I’ve come to realise, is a powerful catalyst for creativity. It gives time and space to our thoughts, allows ideas to marinate, and lets creativity flourish without the pressure to document, share, or seek validation online.
Today, I have to remind myself that creativity doesn’t need to be “good” to be worthwhile. I don’t need to monetise my hobbies, nor do I need to craft the perfect reel to showcase my latest artistic endeavor. Creativity can be messy, chaotic, and ugly! I can write bad stories, paint imperfect pictures, and dance like Elaine Benes without worrying about the judgment of others. As they grow into young women, I want my daughters to continue to experience this freedom—to experiment, to fail, and to create without the ever-present shadow of productivity culture.
Unfortunately, capitalism has stolen much of this creative freedom. The culture of productivity makes us feel that every action must be profitable, every hobby must be a side hustle, and every creation must go viral. When I tell myself that it’s okay to write something that no one will ever see, or to paint just for my own enjoyment, it feels strange, almost wrong. There’s a voice in my head that questions, “What’s the point?” I wish I could embrace that little voice and explain that the point of creativity is to feel something in yourself, to silence the constant mental chatter, and to follow the instinctual movements of your hands, your body. And it doesn’t matter if it’s ugly!
I’m now on a journey of unlearning, of unwinding the tightly wound expectations of productivity and perfection that have been instilled in me. I’m slowly rediscovering the joy of creating just for the sake of it, for myself but also for my daughters. So we dance, we paint, we make up bad songs and sing them loudly in the bath, we let our creativity roam free, tripping and tumbling around our home and snuggling beside us in bed as we sleepily tell funny, unformed stories, our dreams stepping in to finish the rest.
