The Joy of Cheering on Other Creatives

There’s something quietly lovely about watching another creative person flourish.

Not in the loud, shiny, social-media-highlight way that can sometimes leave us feeling a little inadequate, but in the quieter moments. The ones where you know the story behind what someone has made. The nerves before the market. The workshop they almost didn’t run. The painting they nearly abandoned. The writing pitch they were convinced would never be accepted.

When you’ve witnessed the wobble before the win, cheering someone on feels different. More meaningful somehow.

Over the past year, I’ve found myself surrounded — both online and in real life — by wonderfully creative people. Makers, artists, writers, workshop leaders, people bravely trying something new after years of believing creativity belonged to someone else. And one thing I’ve noticed is this: creativity can feel incredibly vulnerable.

Creating asks something of us.

It asks us to try. To risk getting things wrong. To make things that may not work out as we imagined. To put pieces of ourselves out into the world and quietly hope someone understands them.

Whether it’s a felted ornament, a painting, a blog post or a carefully written article, or the first exhibition, there is always a small vulnerability in saying:

Here. I made this.

And because creativity can feel vulnerable, encouragement matters far more than we often realise.

I don’t think we speak enough about the importance of creative cheerleaders. The people who gently nudge us forward when we are wobbling. The friend who comments kindly on your work. The person who tells you to keep going. The workshop tutor who notices your hesitation and quietly says, “You’re doing brilliantly.”

Sometimes the smallest encouragement can arrive at exactly the right moment.

I still think there’s something deeply brave about trying something creative as an adult.

As children, we often create without thinking too much about whether we are “good.” We draw wonky pictures, stick glitter on everything and proudly show people what we’ve made. Somewhere along the way, many of us become cautious. We compare ourselves. We decide we aren’t talented enough. We quietly stop.

Which is why it feels especially wonderful when people encourage us to begin again.

I see it often in workshops. There is nearly always a moment at the beginning when people arrive slightly unsure of themselves. You can almost feel the nervous energy in the room. The quiet comments.

“I’m not creative.”

“I won’t be very good.”

“I haven’t made anything in years.”

And then, slowly, something shifts.

People begin.

They laugh, they experiment, they surprise themselves.

By the end, there’s often pride where uncertainty had been sitting earlier. Not because everything is perfect, but because they gave themselves permission to try. And often, what helped them begin was encouragement.

Someone invited them. They said, “Come along.” Someone made them feel safe enough to have a go. It reminds me that creativity rarely grows in isolation.

We need people around us who say:

Keep going.

That idea is lovely.

You should try.

I believe in you.

I think this is especially true in creative communities. One of the nicest things about finding your creative people is realising there is room for all of us. Someone else succeeding does not mean there is less success available. Another maker selling out at a market does not take anything away from your own work. Someone publishing an article does not mean there is no room left for your words.

In fact, I’ve noticed recently that the opposite to be true.

Watching other people create bravely often inspires me to keep going too. Seeing someone launch a workshop makes me think perhaps I can stretch myself a little further. Reading another writer’s beautifully honest piece reminds me why I wanted to write in the first place.Watching a fellow creative quietly persevere encourages me to keep showing up for my own ideas.

Cheering on others, it turns out, can become unexpectedly inspiring for ourselves.

Perhaps because every time we witness somebody else taking a creative risk, we are gently reminded that trying is allowed. That wobbling is normal. That creativity doesn’t have to be perfect to matter.

And maybe this is the loveliest thing of all: encouragement has a way of travelling. Someone supports us, and eventually we find ourselves doing the same for somebody else.

We become the person saying:

You should absolutely go to that class.

Your work is wonderful.

Keep writing.

Don’t give up.

Creativity can sometimes feel lonely, but perhaps it isn’t meant to be. Perhaps we all need people who quietly clap from the sidelines while we figure things out. People who remind us that making something — anything — is brave.

And perhaps, in cheering others on, we slowly become braver ourselves.