Why Success in Art Feels Like an Uphill Battle
"The path to success is not a straight line, but a journey through waves and tides. It's up to us to steer the course"~Jeff OcayaNote: I wrote this article based on a video I created for Youtube. It’s off the dome, with no edits. If you’d rather watch the video that has accompanying visuals, please find the attached video at the end of the article.
I’ve been reflecting on something lately—success isn’t linear. Neither is skill development. For the longest time, I poured every ounce of energy I had into trying to be the best I could be at my craft. But here’s the hard truth: the more you push, the more you start to question whether the work you’re doing will ever amount to anything.
I’ve switched creative industries three times in my life. Each time, I thought I had finally “figured it out.” I started as a videographer, making daily vlogs. Seventy of them, to be exact—documenting my college experience in raw, unfiltered clips. It felt good at the time. Real. Authentic. But after a while, I wanted more. I transitioned into directing music videos, crafting visuals that felt more polished and intentional. Then I discovered the art of cinematography. I loved the way I could shape the visuals to support the story I wanted to tell. Each pivot felt like a fresh start, but also a step closer to what I truly wanted to create.
In the beginning, I struggled to visualize the things I wanted to make. I’d have vague ideas but no way to see them clearly. The more I practiced, the more things started to change. Eventually, I reached a point where I could close my eyes and see entire scenes play out in my mind. It wasn’t just visualizing; I was editing the scenes in my head. Every cut. Every angle. It was a breakthrough—a moment where my imagination felt sharper than ever.
But there was a problem. The gap between what I could imagine and what I could actually create was enormous. It was like having a perfect vision of a painting in your head, but only knowing how to draw stick figures. So I kept working. I upgraded my equipment, read books, and practiced constantly. My camera became an extension of myself. I carried it everywhere. In college, I had a group of friends who shared my enthusiasm. We created for the sheer joy of it. No deadlines. No pressure. Just pure, unfiltered creativity.
When I graduated, that changed. My time to create shrank to the hours between 6 p.m. and midnight. My friends got jobs, moved away, or grew apart. The new people I met weren’t always as passionate about filmmaking as I was. The thrill of collaboration became harder to find.
Over time, I learned an important lesson: gear doesn’t matter as much as what’s in front of the camera. Sure, a great camera, good lighting, and quality audio can elevate your work. But they’re not the core of what makes something compelling. The people and places you capture are far more important. A great location, paired with people who bring energy and authenticity, can take your work further than the most expensive equipment ever could.
This realization changed how I approached my craft. Instead of obsessing over what camera I was using, I started focusing on finding compelling locations and collaborators. But even that became a struggle. Finding people and places that matched my vision was exhausting. Most of my creative opportunities came through client work, where someone else was footing the bill. While that was great for paying the bills, it also meant giving up some creative control. Their vision, not mine. Their story, not the one I wanted to tell.
It left me frustrated, unsure of how to bring my own ideas to life. I hit a creative wall.
That’s when I pivoted. While working a 9-to-5 job, I started experimenting with 3D animation in my free time. It was something entirely new—a fresh start. At first, I leaned into realism because it seemed like the “right” thing to do. Everyone was obsessed with making things look as close to reality as possible. But something about that didn’t resonate with me. The way I saw the world wasn’t realistic; it was stylized. I found that my creative voice wasn’t about mimicking reality. It was in the choices I made—the characters, the environments, the actions. That’s where my vision started to take shape.
The best part? I didn’t need anyone else. I could create entire worlds and characters on my own. It was liberating. But it also came with its own challenges. The gap between the ideas in my head and my ability to execute them in 3D felt just as daunting as it had in filmmaking. So I did the only thing I knew how to do: I kept at it.
I practiced daily. I learned every aspect of the process—lighting, animation, environment design, camera movement. The more I worked, the more I realized that I would never “arrive.” There was no end goal, no point where I could say, “I’ve mastered this.” And honestly, that was fine. The constant evolution of the craft was what kept it exciting. For someone like me—a lifelong learner—it was perfect.
But the road to growth wasn’t smooth. There were days, months even, where I felt stuck. I’d hit a wall, questioning whether I was actually improving. It’s a strange feeling to look at your work and feel like you’re going backward. But I’ve learned that’s part of the process. Growth isn’t steady; it’s messy.
Fast forward a few years, and I decided to go full-time. Suddenly, I had the time and space to explore all the ideas I’d been storing up for years. And here’s the crazy part: the breakthroughs didn’t come gradually. They came in bursts. After years of grinding through roadblocks, leaning on tutorials, books, and friends for guidance, everything started to click.
Now, I wake up on a random Tuesday, create an entire animated world before noon, and feel amazed at how far I’ve come. A few months ago, I had a realization: the only thing holding me back from creating was the act of sitting down and actually doing the work. Tutorials and learning resources are great, but at some point, you have to stop consuming and start doing.
That shift in mindset changed everything. My body of work grew quickly. Every piece I made felt like a step forward, even if I cringed looking back at it 30 days later. That’s growth. It’s messy and uncomfortable, but it’s also necessary.
This entire journey has taught me one crucial lesson: growth isn’t linear. We all have this idea that progress is a straight line, that you get a little better every day. But that’s not how it works. Growth is a series of flatlines, dips, and sudden leaps. Some days, it feels like you’re getting worse. And then, out of nowhere, everything accelerates. The years of effort compound into breakthroughs that feel sudden but are anything but.
I’ve come to understand that creativity is about more than just making things. It’s about pushing boundaries, questioning norms, and embracing uncertainty. Art is not a checklist; it’s a journey of discovery. Each project, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, is a step toward finding your voice.
There’s something deeply human about creating. It’s not just about the finished product—it’s about the process. The long nights, the failed experiments, the moments of doubt. They’re all part of the story. And when you look back, you realize those struggles are what made the successes so meaningful.
Art isn’t just decoration; it’s essential. It doesn’t just adorn the world; it shapes it. Without art, life would be soulless. It molds our perception, our emotions, our connection to the world. That’s why I keep creating.
I’ve had people reach out to me, asking how I create so much work. The truth? It doesn’t feel like work anymore. It feels like a natural extension of myself—a way to bring my ideas to life. But it wasn’t always this way. There were years where I questioned whether any of this was worth it. I doubted whether I was making progress. I looked at my work and saw nothing but flaws.
But I kept going.
If you’re an artist struggling with doubt, hear this: the work you’re doing right now is not wasted. The time you spend practicing, failing, and learning will pay off. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, you’ll look back and be amazed at how far you’ve come.
The path isn’t linear. It’s messy and unpredictable. But if you keep showing up, you’ll get there. And when you do, you’ll realize that the journey—the late nights, the struggles, the breakthroughs—was the best part.
Creativity is about resilience. It’s about the willingness to show up day after day, even when the results aren’t immediate. It’s about finding joy in the process, not just the outcome. Because in the end, it’s not the finished pieces that define you—it’s the effort, the commitment, and the passion you put into every step of the journey.
So keep creating. The only thing standing between you and your dreams is your willingness to keep going, even when it feels like you’re getting nowhere. One day, you’ll wake up and realize you’ve built something incredible. Something you’re proud of.
And it will all be worth it.