Comparison, the Victim Mindset, and the Hidden Work of Art
Sometimes it feels as if nothing is moving creatively. As if all my artistic work is standing still.
But when I take a closer look, I realize so much has actually shifted: I now own more instruments, more materials, and—most importantly—I approach new instruments with a kind of quiet confidence I didn’t have before. I try out new picking and strumming patterns without hesitation, for example.
The truth is:
I have massively invested in my art over the past years.
Financially. With time. With passion. I’ve devoted my life to it.
And yet, so often it feels like it’s not enough.
Like I am not enough.
That’s the real illness, isn’t it?
I read about Mozart and his obsession with music, and suddenly I tell myself:
“That’s how I should be too. I’m just lazy.”
Or: “I’ll never be good enough.”
It slips into this “nothing will ever change” mindset. I reduce everything to my social status:
“Others are just privileged by their upbringing.”
As if talent and opportunities were dealt out like playing cards, and I simply drew the losing hand.
Poor me, bad luck. The classic victim mindset.
I see myself falling into this trap again and again—especially whenever I start comparing myself to others:
“Of course, that person was born into a family of musicians.”
“Well, she has rich parents and doesn’t need to worry about money, so she can focus entirely on her art.”
“They had fewer childhood traumas, so of course they’re more stable and better equipped.”
It’s exhausting.
And I know I’m not alone in this. I believe this silent comparison game eats up—or even kills—so much of our artistic potential.
Sometimes I catch myself in the act, like yesterday. I can trace it back to the root: how my father used to unconsciously belittle me compared to my sister. That dynamic planted this belief deep inside me—that there are people who are “worthy of being supported” and others who are simply unlucky. And of course, in my insecure moments, I always end up identifying with the unlucky ones.
So what can I do about it?
The answer I’ve found so far is this:
I have to keep creating. To keep putting these narratives on paper, so I can see them clearly, in black and white, outside of my head.
That way, they lose a little of their power.
And maybe that’s how art heals us—not by erasing our wounds, but by allowing us to keep writing, singing, and playing through them.
This very tension is part of the artistic journey.
Art doesn’t just require technical skill or hours of practice. It also holds up a mirror to the shadows within us—the insecurity, the envy, the belief that we are somehow “less than.” The act of creating forces us to confront these narratives again and again.
And in that confrontation lies the real work.
Every time we pick up the instrument, the pen, the brush, we are not only building our craft—we are also choosing to face the story that tells us we’re not enough.
We are reclaiming agency, step by step, from the old voices of comparison.
This is why art is more than expression. It’s transformation.
Yes, comparison can drain us. Yes, the victim mindset is seductive. But art has this strange power: it reflects these shadows back to us and, at the same time, offers the very tools we need to work through them.
To create is to refuse to stay stuck in the spiral. To create is to say: “I see the story, but I choose to keep going anyway.”
And maybe this is what makes art so deeply human: not perfection, not privilege, not some mythical genius standard we’ll never reach…
