Why Inconsistency Isn’t a Flaw in Creative Work
I Disappear Sometimes
My thoughts on inconsistency
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my inconsistency, usually in the language the internet gives me. As a flaw. As a lack of discipline. As something I need to fix before I can be taken seriously.
Consistency is spoken about like a moral virtue online. Something that proves commitment, professionalism, worth. If you show up every day, you’re serious. If you disappear, something must be wrong with you. It’s a neat equation, and I’ve tried very hard to fit into it.
But the truth is, my inconsistency hasn’t come from not caring. It’s come from caring too much, from trying to hold too many expectations at once. From wanting my work to be thoughtful, honest, financially viable, and emotionally sustainable, all at the same time. Some days, that weight slows me down.
There are periods when I show up easily. When ideas flow and sharing feels natural. And then there are stretches where everything feels heavier, where I hesitate before posting, where I second-guess what I’m adding to the noise. In those moments, inconsistency isn’t laziness. It’s a pause born out of fatigue and overthinking.
What makes it harder is how quickly inconsistency is framed as failure. There’s little room to talk about rhythm, about seasons, about the way energy comes and goes. We’re encouraged to treat creativity like a machine, something that should perform on schedule regardless of how the person behind it feels.
I’ve started wondering what would happen if I stopped seeing my inconsistency as something to apologise for. If I allowed it to be information instead. A sign that I might need rest, or clarity, or simply time away from being perceived. A reminder that showing up differently doesn’t always mean showing up less.
Some of my best work has come after gaps. After silence. After letting thoughts settle without immediately turning them into content. And yet, I still carry guilt during those pauses, as if rest needs justification, as if slowing down is a personal failure rather than a human response.
I’m trying to learn a different way of relating to my work. One that allows for unevenness without shame. One that trusts that returning matters more than never leaving. One that understands consistency not as constant output, but as an ongoing relationship with what I’m creating.
I don’t know if the internet will ever reward that kind of rhythm. But I know I can’t keep punishing myself for not being endlessly available. For now, I’m choosing to see my inconsistency not as something broken, but as something that’s asking to be listened to.