We’ve all heard the story: the tortured artist, the sleepless writer, the musician spiraling into madness while chasing “the muse.” The myth is that art demands pain, and if you’re not breaking down in the middle of your studio, are you even doing it right? But when you peel back the layers and talk to real-life creatives living this grind, you’ll see the story isn’t so simple.

Take illustrator Rebecca Green, who has over 225k people watching her every brushstroke. She once confessed,

“I have to be honest, my well is empty. Bone dry… when I show up to my drawing table, I have an immense urge to weep, sing, or run. Anything but make art.”

Her words landed because so many of us know that moment when what once gave life starts to feel like it’s draining it instead. Not because of some mystical “curse of the genius,” but because deadlines are ridiculous, steady money flow is highly needed, and the pressure to prove your art matters never really sleeps. And the numbers back this up.

A study by Creative Many found that 44% of creatives have faced depression—compared to 17% of the general population. Anxiety and depression show up three times more often in creative circles. And 60% of creative professionals have admitted to suicidal thoughts at some point in their lives. So yes, sometimes creativity doesn’t just metaphorically eat you alive—it gnaws at your survival in very real ways.

Yet, for all the burnout and heartbreak, psychologists who work with creatives say the myth of the “tortured artist” is misleading at best, harmful at worst. Many artists actually avoid therapy because they’re scared treatment will “numb” their spark. Imagine that; choosing pain because you think sadness is your superpower. But interviews with creatives and mental health professionals point to a different reality: the most powerful art usually comes from confidence, curiosity, and joy, not torment

Of course, it’s not that simple. Anyone who’s experienced “creative flow” knows it’s intoxicating. You blink and five hours disappear in a blur of paint, code, words, or sound. But flow can tip into chaos too—artists have described working until they literally can’t eat or sleep, spiraling into exhaustion while chasing the rush. Researchers even found that while flow is a “powerful force,” it can be both constructive and destructive . The truth is, creativity isn’t inherently destructive. It’s the lack of boundaries around it—and the environments we’re forced to create in—that do the damage.

In case you’re wondering what those environments? Here’s a brutal outlay. Unstable contracts, low pay, clients who think “exposure” is a form of currency, the social media hamster wheel demanding you stay “relevant” 24/7. Even when the pandemic gave us new ways to create and connect, it also dialed the pressure up to stay visible, stay productive, stay everything at once. No wonder passion itself becomes a trap. Researcher Mark Deuze calls it “cruel optimism”: the way love for your craft makes you endure exploitative conditions because walking away feels like walking away from yourself.

But here’s the twist: creativity isn’t just the monster in the story—it’s also the medicine. Digital artist Lenar Singatullov (Vollut) said burnout taught him to value happiness first, learning to set boundaries and actually ask for what he needed. Artist Tiffany Nicole shared how art literally saved her from depression:

“With all the darkness I felt inside, nothing but color ever showed up on the canvas.”

For some, painting, writing, performing, or designing becomes meditation—a way to breathe again when the world feels unlivable.

So maybe the question isn’t “Does creativity eat you alive?” at all. Maybe the better question is: what conditions are we creating under? Because it’s not creativity itself that destroys—it’s the deadlines, the financial instability, the myths we swallow about suffering being essential. Creativity, at its core, is a flame. And like any flame, it can burn out or it can warm, depending on whether it’s given space, oxygen, and care.

Your art doesn’t have to consume you. It can sustain you, grow with you, light you (and the rest of us) up. But only if we stop feeding the myth that we must suffer for it, and instead build creative lives that make room for both the art and the artist to thrive.