What is Creativity?

In a recent class, one of my teen students watched a short film made by another participant—someone with a bit more experience—and described it as “truly creative.” And honestly? She wasn’t wrong. It was a fantastic short film.

She explained that, to her, creativity meant “making something no one else could have thought of.” She said it with total sincerity and admiration.

But the definition stuck with me: Creativity is when you make something no one else could have thought of.

In the moment, I wasn’t sure how to respond without accidentally shutting down her excitement. I wanted to honor the way she was beginning to articulate her own artist identity while also nudging her toward a wider, gentler view of what creativity actually is.

And apparently my brain wasn’t done with the conversation, because her words have been bouncing around my head for weeks—enough that I’m here writing about it.

It’s a bold definition: to be creative, you must do something no one else has ever imagined.

The Myth of “No One Else Could Have Thought of This”

It sounds good: creativity as something utterly unprecedented. Something that proves your uniqueness to the world.

But when you’re fourteen, that idea feels completely logical. You’re still figuring out the size of the world and your place in it. Everything feels possible. You haven’t hit the moment yet where you realize how many billions of humans have lived and imagined things before you—and that you’re actually part of that same river.

And that’s the part I keep circling back to:

Human beings don’t create in a vacuum.

We absorb each other constantly. Ideas cross-pollinate. A film you watched ten years ago quietly rearranges something inside you. Someone’s offhand comment becomes the seed of your next project.

Trying to find the “first” version of any idea is like trying to identify which raindrop started the storm.

Why Total Originality Is a Trap

The trouble with defining creativity as something no one else could ever imagine is that it pulls you out of yourself. It turns creativity into a performative act—something that only “counts” if other people validate it.

And that mindset is such fertile ground for perfectionism.(The kind of perfectionism I consider one of the most refined forms of self-harm—but that’s a blog post for another day.)

If creativity is something you must prove, then of course it becomes heavy. Competitive. Fraught.

But I think creativity is much quieter—and much more human—than that.

Creativity as Integration

Here’s the definition I’ve landed on:

Creativity is the practice of thinking thoughts you weren’t handed, and following them long enough to become something that feels like your own.

True creativity is thinking your own thoughts. Regardless of whether the external world experiences it.

It’s personal. Internal. And it has nothing to do with impressing an outside audience.

This kind of creativity is just as needed in boardrooms as it is in art studios. It’s what lets us imagine kinder systems, healthier relationships, better ways of living. And none of it can be measured by likes, grades, applause, or awards.

Compare and Despair

You’ve probably heard the phrase “compare and despair.” It definitely applies here.

If your sense of creativity rests on whether you can outdo or emulate someone else, you’ll always feel like you’re chasing something. Because you’re orienting yourself outward instead of inward.

What happens if creativity begins with self-trust instead?

What if it’s less about skill level or equipment or experience, and more about your willingness to tune in, notice what’s forming inside you, and respond honestly?

Creative Living Isn’t Prescribed

I don’t think we’re here to become carbon copies of our surroundings. If uniformity were the goal, evolution would have led us there already. Instead, we ended up with this wildly adaptable, constantly changing species—each of us shaped by our own strange pathways through life.

To me, that says individuality isn’t a glitch. It’s the whole point.

Creative living, then, isn’t about performance. It’s about relationship—your relationship with your own mind, your curiosity, your inner weather systems.

It’s the willingness to ask better questions. To watch your ideas evolve. To let your perspective shift. To follow your genuine interest, even when it’s quiet or odd or unpolished.

That kind of creativity doesn’t need to be loud.

Or grand.

Or public.

It just needs to be yours.

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Journal Prompt

Think of a moment where you made something—or made a decision—that felt fully yours.

What led to it? What made it feel like it came from you rather than from expectation, habit, or pressure?

Then ask:

What might creativity look like for me right now, even if no one else sees it?

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Does this resonate with you?

What’s a mundane moment from your week that actually felt creative once you looked closely?

Share below—I’d love to hear.