Monsters Hall of Fame
Confronting the Voices That Shaped My Self-Doubt
Uncovering the Roots of Negative Beliefs
“Your historic monsters are the building blocks of your core negative beliefs.” - Julia Cameron
I’ve been experiencing a decline in my motivation to write, and I find this alarming—especially since writing is such a new passion of mine. It feels almost as if I haven’t given myself permission to love anything that brings me joy. In search of answers—or perhaps inspiration to remind myself that I matter—I went through my Kindle. Among the unread books I impulsively purchased while scrolling through TikTok, promising I’d read them “another day,” I stumbled upon The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. Almost intuitively, I knew this was where I needed to draw inspiration.
To my surprise, I discovered it’s a 12-week program designed to free your creativity from a life of imprisonment. I don’t know if I was aware of this when I originally purchased the book, but I feel the need to thank my past self. Like most appeals, her plea has finally landed on my desk, and I’m ready to hear her case. It’s time to revisit the evidence that convicted her and examine the punishment:
To never write, dance, draw, sing, or believe without a constant need to plead for her expression.”
That’s a heavy verdict, I thought to myself, as I sat in the midst of extreme writer’s block. Every time I write or publish something, all I hear are negative thoughts. It’s supposed to be something as innocent as expressing myself through a creative outlet, but instead, it fills me with anxiety—like I’m new here and don’t know the rules. Or maybe I haven’t cared to challenge them in a while.
But I’m here now. And as an observer of my own thoughts, I can’t help but think, “Oh my goodness, who hurt you, honey?”
It’s just a post on Substack about my feelings—something no one is likely to ridicule or even care about. So why do I feel so unsafe?
Could this explain why I’m having trouble cutting through the noise of it all? I don’t know, but I’m ready to find out. I’ll start with the witness testimony—what The Artist’s Way calls the Monsters.
In her cell, she has a Hall of Fame, hung with three distinct photos and core memories of the people who landed her in prison for a crime she didn’t commit. My ego once stood before the judge, compelling an argument that won her sentence.
Now, as a mere observer of my thoughts, I sit at my desk with a new team of detectives. Our goal is clear: to free her. To grant her permission to write again, to create again, to live again without the constant need to plead for her freedom.
This is her story!
Monster of Rejection: Michael Brooks
I bring her in for interrogation, the three photos clutched tightly in her hand. May I just say, she’s absolutely stunning—a far cry from what you’d expect of someone who’s been locked away since I was in middle school. Her presence is magnetic, her words measured and articulate. It’s clear she has a love for language, expressing herself with a confidence that catches me off guard.
Before I can ask a single question, she apologizes—profusely, sincerely—for the heartbreak I endured back in sixth grade. The unexpected mention stuns me. How does she even know?
Then she slides something across the table: a letter. A four-page testament she once wrote to Michael Brooks. His name takes center stage, rendered in a Mirror Ripple Name Art design she learned all those years ago in sixth-grade art class—the same class where she likely sat through whispers and shared secrets of playground crushes, just like I did.
The effect is mesmerizing: his name repeats in waves, the ripples flowing outward in alternating shades of red and pink. Beneath the design, the letter sprawls in neat lines of marker. She kept a strict pattern—one word red, the next pink—all the way through, never faltering.
“It was the only way I knew how to say it back then,” she says softly, her voice trembling, her gaze distant. “The heartbreak… I didn’t know it would matter to you later. I didn’t know…”
Her words linger in the air, heavy and unresolved, as I glance down at the letter. The paper is wrinkled, creased, as if it had been balled up and flattened out. A question rises in me, almost unbidden.
“This must look like this from all the years that have passed,” I suggest carefully, testing her reaction.
But she shakes her head, a sad, knowing smile curling at her lips. “No, Carolyn,” she says, her voice quiet but firm. “I’m here because you gave the letter to Michael in Home Room.”
Her words hit me like a distant memory cracking open. I blink, stunned, and she continues, her voice growing more urgent. “My goodness, honey, you were so innocent. So proud of the work we’d done to get that final draft just perfect. You loved art back then—abstract shapes, bubble letters, those bold, colorful lines. You weren’t perfect at it, but you loved it. Cursive writing, doodles… And you had a knack for expressing your feelings in the brightest, most colorful ways. That letter…” She pauses, taking a shaky breath. “It was beautiful. We worked so hard on it.”
Her words stir something in me, but the question still lingers. “Then why is it so wrinkled?” I ask, unable to let it go.
Her expression darkens, and tears brim in her eyes. She stands abruptly, pacing the small interrogation room, her breaths shallow and quick. Suddenly, she’s crying—silent tears streaming down her face, dripping off her chin.
“Carolyn,” she finally says, her voice breaking, “when the bell rang for first quarter, and it was time to switch classes, everyone in Michael’s Home Room came out screaming. ‘He doesn’t like you! Hahaha!’ ‘He threw your letter in the trash, and he didn’t even read it!’”
Her words come fast now, tumbling out as if she’s reliving it. “When Michael saw you standing there, he said it with his own mouth: ‘You’re ugly, Carolyn. I don’t like you. Not even a little bit.’”
The room feels colder now. I’m frozen in place, the weight of her words pressing down on me.
“Everyone in the hallway laughed at you,” she says, her voice cracking with emotion. “And you didn’t want to believe it. So you took a peek inside his Home Room, just to see for yourself. And there it was…” Her voice falters. “The trash can. And your letter, unopened, crumpled, sitting right there.”
She stops pacing and looks at me, her eyes swollen with tears. “That’s why it’s wrinkled, Carolyn. Because that day, your whole world changed.”
Her words cut deep, dragging me back to a moment I’d buried long ago. The echoes of laughter, the humiliation, the sting of rejection—all of it comes rushing back like it never left.
I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes, trying to steady myself. I’m here as an observer, I remind myself. I witnessed.
“I—” I begin, my voice trembling but forcing professionalism, “Is this why I’m having trouble writing? Is this why I hate my handwriting till this day? Fear that someone’s going to throw me in the trash, huh?” My voice rises, cracking with frustration, anger spilling over. “Or is this why I hate putting myself out there?”
I glare at her, almost glad my ego helped put her away. “I mean, why did you think that was a good idea? Four pages of ‘I love you’? ‘You’re handsome’? ‘Will you be my boyfri—’”
Before I can finish, she interjects, her voice calm, yet cutting through my anger. “But you still doodle, don’t you? When you’re lost in thought. Or bored.”
Her words catch me off guard, and my voice softens as I respond. “Yeah. It… it brings me calm.” I pause, thinking for a moment. “But it’s just random words. Things that pop into my mind.” Another pause, and then I add quietly, “Now that I think about it, it’s mostly words like ‘beautiful.’ ‘Hearts.’ And… I notice I doodle my name a lot.”
She smiles softly, her voice filled with a tenderness I wasn’t expecting. “That’s me. I think Carolyn has a beautiful heart. And I’m so sorry you were hurt that day in sixth grade.”
She hands me the picture of Michael Brooks, but as I stare at it, his face morphs—he looks like Brandon, Oran, Carter, another Michael, Todd, Marius… and a host of other men who’ve come into my life only to reject or abandon me. My chest tightens as I look up at her, and she meets my gaze with a calm intensity.
“I begged you to deal with the heartbreak through art,” she says, her voice steady but filled with a quiet sadness. “But the embarrassment was too much to stomach. For as long as I’ve been trapped in here, your ego has tried to win back your dignity—only to fail. And every time, it blames me.”
Her words cut deep as she continues, her tone unrelenting. “Each night, when you cry yourself to sleep, I hear it. ‘See what you’ve done,’ you say. ‘Because of your stupid poem, we’re caught in a loop of back-to-back rejection.’ And then you whisper, ‘I’ll make sure she never writes again.’”
The weight of her words hangs in the air, and for a moment, I can’t speak. My hands tremble as I slide the photo into my folder. Finally, I find my voice, shaky but determined.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I’ve been reading a lot about you—about how other people have freed their inner creatives. I wish I could say it hurts less, but it doesn’t. Still, I’m here for you. And I’m excited to write again.”
Her expression softens, a glimmer of hope breaking through.
“The book says I should take you on a date once a week,” I add, smiling faintly. “How about we start with mirror ripple art? We could use the word ‘beautiful’ for our first date.”
Her eyes light up, and for the first time, I see her smile—a genuine, unguarded smile. “I’d love that, Carolyn,” she says, her voice filled with warmth.
The Monster of Most Unforgettable: Carolyn Brown
I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the next photo. When I see it, my chest tightens—it’s my senior photo, the one of me in my cap and gown, with the words Most Unforgettable printed underneath. I blink in surprise, staring at the image as if it doesn’t belong to me.
“Me?” I say, almost incredulously. “Are you serious?”
She nods firmly, her expression unwavering. “I’m so serious.”
I shake my head, baffled. “Please explain how I’m stopping you from creating.”
Her gaze sharpens, cutting through my disbelief. “You stop me because you overthink everything,” she says. “And because you lean into this… almost subservient role, where you make everyone underestimate you or your capabilities. To the point of being, honestly, clown-like.”
Her words hit me hard, but she doesn’t stop. “If I remember correctly, you were almost voted Class Clown. Not because you weren’t intelligent—quite the opposite. Everyone knew how smart you were, but you spent so much time pretending you weren’t. Remember that day in Social Studies? When the majority of the class failed the exam, and everyone in unison turned to you, you, of all people, wanting to see what you got? And when they saw you’d passed with almost a perfect score, they couldn’t believe it.
I burst out laughing, the memory vivid now, but she doesn’t let me off the hook.
“They couldn’t believe it because, in their minds, how could someone as dumb as you—someone who never took themselves seriously—do better than them?”
I laugh again, but it’s laced with discomfort, her words cutting closer to the truth than I want to admit. She keeps going, relentless.
“Well, because you’d rather pretend you don’t get it. You’d rather downplay yourself, make yourself the joke, because you thought it was safer that way. And over time, you were rewarded for that. For not getting it. For being underestimated.”
Her voice softens, tinged with frustration. “And that’s why I’m stuck, Carolyn. Because for me to express myself, I need you to stop pretending. To stop overthinking and letting other people define your worth. Because what I do? It doesn’t require you to play small. It doesn’t require you to overthink. It requires you to feel. And until you let yourself do that, I’ll stay trapped.”
I sit there, stunned into silence, her words still echoing in my mind.
I take a hard look at the photo, my heart breaking as I realize the truth. “I know you’re right,” I admit quietly.
This photo forces me to confront something I’ve avoided for years. It’s part of the reason why I never took AP classes—not because I wasn’t capable, but because I was afraid it would blow my cover. People could barely handle being in honors classes with me. I played the role so well that it made others question whether it was easy to be in those classes—like there had been some mistake.
Even in college, I refused to aim for straight A’s, knowing full well I could achieve it. Mediocrity has been my safe place, my shield.
I stare at the words Most Unforgettable beneath the photo, and it hits me: being remembered for being the best at playing dumb is nothing to brag about. It’s not the kind of unforgettable I want. I want to be remembered for my competency, not my incompetency.
She smiles at me, a glimmer of pride in her eyes. “In order for me to create,” she says, “I need you to think bigger, not more. You can’t play stupid with me, Carolyn. If you do, your ego will trap me in here forever, because I challenge the narrative you’ve been playing in your mind: ‘I’ll be remembered if I play stupid.’”
Her words land, and for a moment, I’m silent, turning them over in my head. Finally, I look at her and nod. “Okay. Okay, okay. I get it.”
I take the photo, place it carefully into my folder, and look her in the eye. “I can be remembered for my competency and warmth.”
She nods, her smile widening. “I am remembered for my competency and warmth.
The Monster of Abandonment: Unborn Child
We’re laughing endlessly, reminiscing about my childhood memories. How I was so good at dodgeball. How, for some inexplicable reason, I was obsessed with the color orange at one point. My heart feels so full, and I’m jotting down little notes about myself as we talk.
She even takes me back to kindergarten, reminding me of the time I found the gingerbread man during storytime. I laugh, telling her how much I miss making gingerbread houses. “Mine always sucked,” I admit.
She grins knowingly. “They did,” she agrees, then adds, “But making food out of creative art? That’s never resonated with you, Carolyn. You’ve never even carved a pumpkin—child or adult!”
Her enthusiasm sparks as she leans forward. “Ooooh! Can we try it for Halloween 2025?” she exclaims.
I laugh and nod. “Sure. But first, we have to get you out of here.” My voice softens as I add, “Who’s the third monster I have to face?”
Her smile fades, and I notice her fidgeting with a photo. It’s rectangular, with a stark white back, and she’s holding it like it’s something fragile, something she isn’t sure she should show me.
I can feel her hesitation. Leaning in, I close the gap between us and gently place my hand on her wrist. “Hey,” I say softly, “remember, I’m just an observer. You don’t have to protect me.”
She hesitates for a moment longer, then slides the photo across the table quickly, almost too fast for me to see.
I turn it over.
It’s an ultrasound. The date in the corner reads March 31, 2014. My breath catches in my throat as I read the words beneath it: 6 weeks pregnant.
She begins, her voice calm but deliberate. “Your father had just bought you that 2001 Ford Mustang when you first met Michael at the gas station. Your dad was outside, proudly pumping gas into your new car, beaming because you’d just graduated high school. Michael walked up to you with an odd question: ‘Is that your boyfriend?’”
I cringe at the memory as she continues. “You yelled across the parking lot, ‘Eww, no! But he’s the best daddy in the world!’ Your father heard you, smiled, and gave you a wave.”
Somehow, despite the awkward introduction, you and Michael exchanged numbers. Over the course of a year, the two of you built an intimate relationship.
As she speaks, a chill runs down my spine, goosebumps rising on my skin. Her voice feels like it’s narrating a horror story—one I know too well.
“One day,” she continues, “in the middle of a yoga session—downward dog, to be exact—he didn’t ‘pull out.’” She pauses, letting the words sink in. “And you ended up pregnant.”
My stomach churns. The more she recounts, the more vivid the memories become. A strange metallic taste rises in my mouth—like goldfish crackers, a childhood snack I can’t stomach anymore. Then, as if caught in a time warp, it’s raining. I’m standing in a Walmart bathroom, staring at a pregnancy test.
I’m calling Michael, my voice trembling as I tell him the news. And then, as if we’re reading a script, we both say at the exact same time:
“If you have this baby, you’ll be a single mom.”
For the first time, I rise from my seat, completely defeated. My chest tightens as I pace the room, my voice breaking as I exclaim to my creative self, “That’s my womb! Do you have any idea how hard every cell in my body has worked to bury that abortion? To forget it? My God…”
The memories surge forward, unstoppable. “I see the protesters now, their signs screaming at me. I see the nurse who held my hand as my unborn child was terminated from my body. I see the news articles about the protestors outside the doctor’s home—the same doctor who performed my abortion—being questioned for saying he loves to abort Black women’s babies!”
My anger surges like a tidal wave, and before I know it, I pick up my chair and throw it across the room. A scream tears out of my throat, raw and guttural, echoing the cry of the woman who aborted her child at eight months. I can still see her—her face, her anguish—as I sat there gossiping with the other women in the waiting room.
“The moment he said he didn’t want it, I made the appointment,” she had said. Did she hope he would change his mind? Did any of us? We whispered among ourselves, finding false comfort in her screams, as if we were somehow better for not waiting that long.
The memory grips me like a vice, and suddenly, I’m crumbling. I curl into the fetal position, my body trembling. I’m no longer in the interrogation room—I’m in Michael’s bed, lying there after the abortion. He left for work, leaving me alone in his room, numb, lost, trying to process what I had done.
My inner creative walks over, her steps deliberate, her voice soft but firm. “The womb is where all life must pass through, Carolyn. We cannot create until you forgive yourself—for abandoning your unborn child because Michael abandoned you.”
Her words pierce me, unearthing a truth I’ve tried to ignore. “Surely, you wonder why you live in a state of fear—fear of abandonment. Why you sabotage yourself at every turn. Why you accept the bare minimum from yourself and others.”
I can’t speak, the weight of her words pressing down on me like the pain I’ve carried for years. But deep down, I know she’s right.
I ask, my voice trembling, “But how? How do I forgive myself? I understand Michael—the monster of rejection. I even understand myself being the monster. But my unborn child… he or she was innocent.”
My inner creative looks at me, her expression soft but unyielding. “And aren’t we all?” she asks.
Her words hang in the air, and I sit with them, meditating on their meaning. Slowly, she begins to hum. The melody is familiar, comforting. “Yes, Jesus Loves Me.”
I lift my head, startled. “You know that’s the song I sing when I’m hurting,” I say softly.
She leans forward, her voice warm but filled with purpose. “It’s the song we sing,” she corrects, holding my gaze. “I’ve been hurting too, Carolyn. Every time you tell a joke and quickly apologize. Every time you shrink yourself to make others comfortable. Every time you publish a Substack and then obsess over likes and shares, forgetting how good it felt to simply write—publicly, freely—without hiding your words in a diary.”
Her voice grows sharper, but not unkind. “What about me do you hate so much?”
Her question hits me like a blow, and for a moment, I can’t respond. I feel the weight of her pain—my pain—reflected in her eyes, and I realize how long I’ve been avoiding the answer.
I say, “Let’s play patty cake,” and my inner creative’s face lights up. “I’d love to!” she exclaims with a playful grin.
I fall over laughing at her humor, her wit and charm catching me off guard. She reminds me so much of the bubbly version of myself—the one I’d almost forgotten. Catching my breath, I ask, “Do you know her?”
She laughs, her voice light and warm. “Oh yeah, we’re pen pals,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “She always jokes that the first thing we’re gonna do when I’m out of here is go dancing.”
I throw my hands up. “Dancing? I hate dancing!”
She smirks knowingly. “You hate it because I’m locked up in here. The moment I’m free? Even a two-step will feel so freeing to you!”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “At that point, I’m sure I’ll be down to try anything.”
I stand up from the floor, my laughter fading as I walk over to the table. My eyes linger on the ultrasound photo one last time. Gently, I pick it up and place it in my folder, smoothing the edges before closing it.
The guards enter the room, their heavy footsteps breaking the quiet. They move toward my inner creative, preparing to take her away. She stands, calm and composed, ready to be cuffed.
Before they can secure the restraints, I rush to her, pulling her into a hug. Her warmth surprises me, grounding me, and I whisper fiercely, “I’m going to conquer these monsters. I’ll be back to get you. I promise.”
She pulls back, her smile reassuring. “I’ll be practicing my dancing,” she says softly, her eyes gleaming with hope.
I watch as they lead her away, the door closing behind them. The room feels quieter now, but her words linger, wrapping around me like a promise I’m determined to keep.
I’m crying—are you? If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading the story of my inner creative and her journey. I hope something she said resonated with you, inspiring you to take a moment to look inward, visit your own inner creative, and uncover what—or who—might be haunting them like the monsters they are.
Over the next three months, I’ll be working tirelessly to free my inner creative. Tune in to my daily posts as I share this journey with you. Let’s set our creativity free together.