Happy afternoon, dear readers!

Have you ever revisited a childhood favorite and realized that, somehow, you accidentally lived through the plot? Because apparently, that is something that can happen to a person, and I have some explaining to do.

My favorite childhood movie was Tinker Bell. I loved, loved, LOVED this movie as a kid. I loved Pixie Hollow, the different kinds of fairies, the pretty little dresses, the tiny houses, and the idea that everyone had their own special talent. What I did not know was that one day, I would find myself relating to Tinker Bell on a deeply personal level. I certainly did not expect a Disney fairy movie to have something to say about my career choices, my relationship with my own creativity, and the way I viewed my own talents and skill.

But here we are.

A Quick Trip to Pixie Hollow

For those who need a refresher, Tinker Bell follows our favorite little fairy as she discovers that her talent is tinkering. While the other fairies have gifts like making flowers bloom, controlling the wind, or working with water, Tinker Bell is essentially a tiny fairy engineer.

Which is actually pretty cool, if you ask me. But I understand her mild annoyance because I too want superpower.

Anyways, Unfortunately, Tinker Bell doesn’t think her talent is so cool. She wants to do something more exciting, something that feels more important. And it’s somewhat understandable why. The other talents seem so magical and showy, while tinkering involves fixing things, building things, and making things work. It’s useful, sure, but it doesn’t necessarily have the same sparkle as making flowers bloom across a meadow.

And the problem isn’t just in Tinker Bell’s head. Pixie Hollow has its own little system of expectations about what different fairies can and cannot do. Tinkers aren’t supposed to go to the mainland to help bring spring. There’s a whole established set of roles, and Tinker Bell’s talent supposedly doesn’t fit into the job.

Then there’s Vidia, who is pretty openly prejudiced against Tinker Bell and her talent.

The thing is, Tinker Bell’s dissatisfaction isn’t happening in a vacuum. She’s living in a world that gives her reasons to believe her gift isn’t as valuable as everyone else’s. She’s surrounded by expectations that make her feel like she got the short end of the sticker or, er, the fairy wand.

So she tries to change her talent. She attempts to learn the other fairies’ gifts, hoping she can become something other than what she is. But it doesn’t work, and in the process, she causes a whole lot of trouble for everyone preparing for spring.

Eventually, Tinker Bell realizes that her own talent is exactly what Pixie Hollow needs. Her tinkering skills allow her to fix the mess she’s made and help save the day. She proves that her talent isn’t just useful. It’s essential.

And in doing so, she proves Pixie Hollow wrong, too.

She gets to go to the mainland after all.

The little fairy who wasn’t supposed to be good enough for the job ends up showing everyone why she belongs there.

And, as it turns out, I had a very similar problem.

So, What Does This Have to Do With Me?

Well, I write.

I like writing. I love writing. I’d love to be a published writer someday.

And if you’ve spent any time existing in the current world, particularly in the United States, you probably understand that creative careers aren’t exactly treated as the most practical life choices. There are a variety of reasons for this, and that isn’t really the point of this particular story. The point is that there’s a general concept, or stereotype, that going into a creative field is kind of dumb.

Granted, creative careers aren’t easy. Making a living as a writer is difficult, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. Being practical matters. Paying your bills matters. Having a stable job matters. This stereotype is founded in some truth.

But somewhere along the way, the conversation about being practical can turn into something else entirely.

Don’t take that creative job. Don’t pursue that passion. Don’t spend too much time on something that might not make you money. You can always do it as a hobby! But don’t invest in it too much. There’s no return after all…

And there’s nothing wrong with having hobbies. Hobbies are great! I have several, and I think people should be allowed to enjoy things without monetizing every single one of them. But there’s a difference between choosing to keep something as a hobby because that’s what you want and pushing it into the hobby box because you’ve convinced yourself that it’s not worth anything more.

I got a degree in biology, with a minor in writing. And, I wanted to emphasize, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. I genuinely enjoy science, and I value having a STEM education and a stable career. My job is important, and the work I do matters.

But if I’m being honest, my attitude toward writing was a bit of a problem.

I wanted a talent that felt important. I wanted something that the world valued. I wanted to make money and feel practical and have something to show for my efforts. Writing didn’t feel like that.

So, slowly, I started talking down about my own talent. I downplayed my passion. I treated writing like something I did for fun, something that wasn’t really worth taking seriously. I could write, sure, but it wasn’t my real career. It wasn’t what I went to school for. It wasn’t what I did to make money. It ultimately did not factor into any of my life decisions.

It was just a little thing I did on the side.

Sound familiar?

I was Tinker Bell, standing in Pixie Hollow, wishing I had a different talent.

The Problem With Trying to Fit Into a Box

After graduating, I got a job in STEM. And I want to be clear as well, I don’t think it was a bad move at all! It was an important stepping stone for me, and I learned a lot. I gained experience, developed professional skills, and started building a career. I really did need to pay my bills.

But I struggled with feeling satisfied.

I had this idea that because I had a practical job, my creative pursuits were supposed to take a backseat. They were optional. They were the things I could do if I had enough time and energy after taking care of the important stuff.

And if I didn’t have the time or energy? Well, that was just adulthood, wasn’t it?

Except I started feeling guilty whenever I did create something. I felt like I was wasting time on something that wasn’t worth as much as my actual job. I wasn’t making money from it, so why was I spending my limited free time doing it?

I had effectively convinced myself that my own talent wasn’t valuable enough to deserve my attention.

So I stopped writing.

And then I felt like crap. Shocker.

I would cry on the way home from work because I knew I wanted to make things. I wanted to write stories and poems and create things that existed because I had imagined them into being. I wanted to have something that was mine, something I could be excited about. And, because I was totally ignoring this part of myself, I was trying to convince myself that my passion really was my current job when it most definitely wasn’t.

When it comes to numbers, excel spreadsheets, and statistics, I don’t really find myself filled with joy. I was trying to be that person because it would be a whole lot more convienient if I was. During college I had wished desperately I was one of those people who loved math (they make waaaay more money I hear). But you simply can’t just completely change who you are and how you’re wired.

By the time I’d get home from work, I was drained. Mostly because I had spent the day both working and performing. I was pretending to care about what I did. And because I had spent so much time convincing myself that my creative work wasn’t worth prioritizing, I had made it even harder to find the motivation to do it. So a double soul suck.

It was a rather unfortunate cycle.

I was too tired to create, and I felt guilty when I did create. I wasn’t making things, which made me unhappy, and the longer I went without making things, the harder it became to start again.

I had spent so much time trying to be practical that I had forgotten how to value something simply because it mattered to me.

And the worst part? I was the one doing it to myself.

Now, to some extent, I think this is a pretty common experience. We grow up hearing about the importance of being responsible, getting a good education, finding a stable job, and making smart decisions. And those things ARE important! But I think it’s easy to accidentally interpret that advice as a reason to abandon the parts of ourselves that don’t fit neatly into those expectations.

We start treating our natural talents as frivolous. We convince ourselves that the things we love are less important because they don’t have an obvious practical application. We start believing that if the world doesn’t value something, we shouldn’t value it either.

And that’s where I went wrong.

Enter: My Creative Fairy Godmother

Thankfully, this story has a happy ending. Or at least, a much happier middle chapter.

Two things happened that helped me start changing my perspective.

First, I applied for a job that leaned more heavily into my creative interests.

Second, I made a creative friend who was an amazing writer herself.

And this friend noticed something about me that I hadn’t really stopped to consider. She pointed out how badly I talked about my own work and talent. Her exact words were: “Why do you keep benching yourself?”

The phrase stuck in my head. It was a perfect visual too because it was what I was doing. I was telling the little writer in my brain to “sit this one out”, even though writer me was constantly begging to enter the game. Put me in, coach!

I don’t think I had fully realized how often I dismissed myself. I had gotten so used to downplaying my writing that it had become second nature. I would talk about it as if it were something silly, something I wasn’t particularly good at, and something that didn’t really matter.

And here was another writer, someone whose work I admired, looking at me and essentially asking why I was talking about myself that way.

It was a little bit of a wake-up call.

Then I got the job!

And suddenly, I had an opportunity to approach my creativity differently. I could stop treating it like an embarrassing little secret and start appreciating it as a real part of who I am.

I decided to love my talent again.

Not because I had suddenly become a bestselling author. And definitely not because I had figured out how to make a fortune from writing. Not because I had discovered some magical formula for turning every creative pursuit into a profitable business.

I just decided that writing was something I loved, something I was good at, and something worth making room for in my life.

Maybe We Don’t Need a Different Talent

Looking back, I think one of the biggest things I had in common with Tinker Bell was that we both wanted our talents to be valued by the world around us.

Tinker Bell wanted to do something important. She wanted to contribute to Pixie Hollow in a way that made sense to everyone else. She wanted her gift to be recognized as something special.

And I wanted my writing to feel important, too.

I wanted it to be practical. I wanted it to be respectable. I wanted to be able to explain why I was spending my time doing something creative without feeling like I needed to justify myself.

But the thing is, Tinker Bell didn’t need to become a different kind of fairy. And, pardon me for being a bit corny, but she needed to recognize the value of the fairy she already way.

There is nothing wrong with being practical. There is also nothing wrong with having a stable career, pursuing a STEM degree, or keeping some of your creative interests as hobbies if you so desire. There is nothing wrong with deciding that a particular passion doesn’t need to be your full time job. Heck, some people creatve BETTER when something isn’t their job.

But there IS something wrong with convincing yourself that your talents don’t matter just because they aren’t the ones the world rewards most obviously.

You can be practical without being dismissive of yourself. You can acknowledge that making a living as a writer is difficult without deciding that writing isn’t worth doing. And you can recognize the importance of your day job without treating everything else you love as a waste of time.

I don’t think everyone needs to quit their job and pursue their childhood dreams. It’s not as simple as that. There are far too many factors associated with that decision and there are always going to be less than desirable jobs. Jobs, at the end of the day, are made to fix a problem or produce something. (Please do not quit your job because a tiny animated fairy told you to. I am begging you to use some discernment.)

I think the lesson is that we shouldn’t be so eager to fit ourselves into the boxes other people have built that we forget to appreciate what we bring to the table.

Sometimes, the thing we need to change isn’t our talent. It’s the way we think about it.

Anyway, Thank You, Tinker Bell

It’s a little funny to think that a movie I watched as a kid would become so relevant to my adult life. Back then, I just thought Tinker Bell was a cute fairy with a cute little teapot house and a cute little hammer going on cute little adventures with her friends.

Now, I’m realizing that her story had something to teach me about creativity, self worth, and the dangers of dismissing the things that make us who we are. I still want to be a writer especially in regards to writing books. I still want to create things. I still want to make stories and poems and all sorts of little projects that may or may not ever make me any money.

And I’m learning that those desires don’t have to be justified by a paycheck to be worth taking seriously.

I can appreciate my STEM adjacent career AND my writing. I can be grateful for the practical things I’ve accomplished AND make room for the things that make me feel alive. One doesn’t have to cancel out the other. I can stop talking about my own work as if it’s something to be embarrassed about.

Because maybe my writing isn’t the flashiest talent in Pixie Hollow. It’s definitely not the easiest thing to turn into a career. But that doesn’t mean it has no value.

Tinker Bell didn’t become a different fairy. She learned to appreciate the one she already was, and then she showed everyone else what she could do. I’m trying to do the same.

So here’s to the little talents we learn to dismiss as we grow up. Here’s to the things we love that don’t always fit neatly into a practical career path. Here’s to making room for the parts of ourselves that we were once told weren’t important enough.

And here’s to remembering that just because the world doesn’t always know what to do with your talent doesn’t mean you should throw it away.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some writing to do.

Apparently, I have a mainland to get to.