The Art of Discomfort: How Pushing Boundaries Leads to Growth

Let’s talk about that weird tension you feel when something you’re working on makes you slightly uneasy. Not in the “I’m doing something wrong” kind of way, but in the “I’m doing something new and I don’t know how it’s going to land” way. That edge. That space where your instincts and your experience start to argue a little. That’s the zone we’re in today... creative discomfort.

If you’ve been making work for a while, you probably already know that growth doesn’t happen when you’re coasting. The stuff that feels easy, familiar, routine... it might be efficient, even polished, but it rarely pushes you forward. The real movement tends to show up when you’re trying something that doesn’t quite fit, when you’re not sure if what you’re doing is “you” yet, or when you find yourself saying, “I’m not sure this is working.” And not because it’s bad... because it’s unfamiliar.

We don’t talk about discomfort enough in the art world in a real way. We talk about critique and vulnerability, but often in kind of an abstract or cleaned-up way. What I’m more interested in is that lived moment: when you’re standing in your studio or at your desk or in the middle of a digital file and you’re actually uncomfortable. You want to scrap the whole thing. You don’t know if it’s good. You’re fighting the urge to go back to something safe, something that “works.” That’s the moment that deserves more space.

There’s nothing wrong with making work that’s comfortable. Sometimes you need that. But if you’ve been circling the same style, the same subject, the same method for a long time, and you’re wondering why your work feels stuck, the answer might not be about motivation or time. It might just be that you’re ready to move forward... and you’re trying not to.

Growth feels great in hindsight. But while you’re in it? It can be messy. You might feel lost or awkward. You might second-guess yourself constantly. You might make a whole series that never sees the light of day. But that process... stepping into discomfort on purpose... is often where the real shift happens. That’s when your voice starts to stretch. That’s when your skills get challenged. That’s when new ideas show up because you’re no longer recycling the old ones.

As someone who’s been at this for over twenty years, both in my own studio practice and in the classroom, I’ve seen it play out more times than I can count. Students who hit that uncomfortable wall and want to pull back... they’re often on the edge of something interesting. Artists who start working in a new material or style and feel like beginners again... most of the time, that leads to something more honest. More connected. More layered.

You don’t have to overhaul your practice to step into discomfort. It can be small. Maybe you try a tool you’ve been avoiding. Maybe you show a piece you’re not sure about. Maybe you apply for a show you feel underqualified for. Whatever it is, you’ll know it by the way it makes you hesitate... and then keep thinking about it. That little tug of nervous energy is often a signal that something matters.

There’s also a myth we don’t challenge enough: the idea that you should only put out work when it’s fully formed, fully resolved, and fully “you.” But growth doesn’t always look good in the moment. It’s often in that in-between space where the best ideas get built. If you’re never letting yourself be bad at something again, you’re probably not letting yourself grow.

And this isn’t just a creative thing... it’s also a business thing. If you’re running an art business, selling work, putting yourself out there on social media, applying for opportunities, then you already know: discomfort comes with the territory. Whether it’s raising your prices, setting boundaries, or talking about your work in public, the things that move your business forward almost always come with a little discomfort. Especially if you didn’t set out to be a businessperson. A lot of us came into this just wanting to make things. But the second it becomes a career, discomfort becomes part of the job.

One thing I’ve learned over time is that you don’t have to love the discomfort to trust it. You can still feel the doubt and do the thing. You can feel awkward and keep going. You can mess up and start over. Discomfort doesn’t mean you’re wrong... it just means you’re doing something you haven’t done yet. And when you normalize that, when you stop expecting it to feel smooth all the time, you actually get better at it. You learn to recognize when it’s useful. You learn to notice the difference between discomfort that’s about fear and discomfort that’s about growth.

The more you do it, the more you can tell: “Okay, this feels uncomfortable, but I’m not in danger here. I’m just stretching.” And that’s a huge shift. Because instead of pulling back every time it feels weird, you start leaning in. You let the edge be part of the process. And it changes your work.

Sometimes discomfort in the studio is quiet. It’s not a meltdown moment or a dramatic crisis. It’s more like restlessness. A sense that what you’re making isn’t connecting like it used to. Or maybe it’s the opposite... you’ve had a string of consistent work, maybe even sales or attention, but you feel detached from the process. You’re going through the motions. It’s technically good, but it’s not pushing you. That’s discomfort, too.

Other times, it’s more obvious. You try something new and it flops. You hate the results. You feel like you’ve forgotten how to make. You’re overwhelmed by the unknowns. You ask yourself what you’re even doing. And if you’re someone who makes their living from this, or shares their work online, or has deadlines... those feelings can multiply fast. But none of this is failure. It’s transition. It’s the uncomfortable middle between one version of your practice and the next.

The thing that’s hard is we don’t often build room for this in our schedules. Discomfort takes time. You need time to wander, to mess around, to not be efficient. And that’s not always possible when you’re trying to keep up with commissions, exhibitions, product launches, student emails, or whatever else is part of your reality. But if you’re always pushing forward without letting yourself get uncomfortable, you’re just refining old work... not building new ideas.

The trick is to carve out space for discomfort, even in small ways. You don’t need to pause everything to do this. Sometimes it’s just giving yourself permission to make something you don’t show anyone. Sometimes it’s changing the material you use or the process you rely on. Sometimes it’s saying no to a project that doesn’t fit your values or saying yes to one that intimidates you a little. These moments don’t always feel brave. Sometimes they just feel awkward. But they make a difference over time.

Now let’s talk about discomfort on the business side. If you’re running an art business... even part-time... you’ve probably already noticed that this kind of discomfort doesn’t always look creative. It looks like having to talk about money. It looks like asking for what you’re worth. It looks like dealing with the pressure to be visible, to show up online, to package your process into content. It looks like rejection. Like ghosted emails. Like show applications that don’t pan out. It can be really discouraging.

And it’s tempting to think that once you reach a certain level, this stuff gets easier. But in my experience, the discomfort just shifts. It doesn’t go away. You might get more confident about pricing, but then you hit a new price range and it feels scary again. You might get more used to applying for things, but then the stakes go up and the fear comes back. Each stage of growth brings a new edge. So much of it is just learning to sit with that feeling, to work through it instead of around it.

The Role of Teaching in Understanding Discomfort

In the classroom, I see this up close. The moment students try something new and it doesn’t work how they imagined, the discomfort hits. It’s not just about the outcome—it’s about that internal moment of “What if I can’t do this?” And honestly, that doesn’t go away, no matter how long you’ve been doing this. But what you can get better at is staying present through it.

I try to model that. I share when something I’m making isn’t working, or when I’m changing direction mid-series. I don’t pretend to have everything figured out, because none of us do. We’re all figuring it out as we go. And when you make space for that—not just for your students but for yourself—something softens. You stop expecting it all to be smooth. You allow the bumps.

Creating a Practice That Allows for Growth

It helps to build a studio rhythm that allows for discomfort. Not every hour needs to be optimized. Not every project needs a clear outcome. Sometimes you need to make a mess and leave it there. You need a sketchbook that doesn’t go on Instagram. A pile of pieces that no one will ever see. That’s where the next phase of your voice starts to develop.

If everything you make is being made for public view, it’s hard to take risks. It’s hard to experiment when everything is part of a brand. But even if you run a business, you still get to protect part of your process. Give yourself time to explore without needing it to turn into something right away.

Final Thoughts

Discomfort isn’t a flaw in your process. It’s a sign that you’re doing something real. It means you care enough to stretch. To try. To risk making something that might not work. And in that space, you open the door to growth—not just in your work, but in how you show up to it.

So if you’re feeling uneasy, restless, uncertain... it doesn’t mean you’re off track. It might mean you’re getting closer. Keep showing up. Keep noticing what makes you hesitate. Let discomfort be part of the rhythm—not the enemy, not the goal, just a companion on the path.

You don’t have to fix it or rush through it. You just have to stay with it long enough to see what it’s trying to teach you.