An Artist named cat
After unloading dozens of boxes of wine into the cool room for an event, we stood opposite each other, unwrapping crates of plates—one of those repetitive, meditative moments in hospitality where strangers slowly start to become something else.
Cat had been mostly silent all morning. She looked to be in her early forties, hardworking, reserved, the kind of person who moves with quiet purpose.
The girl beside me asked, “So, what do you do?”
“I’m an artist,” I said, trying to sound sure of it. I left out the usual self-deprecating “...but not really,” or “...just on the side.”
Cat looked up immediately. Her eyes lit with something sharp and familiar.
“Oh really? What kind of art do you do?”
“Oil and charcoal at the moment. Do you do any art?”
“I used to,” she said. “I studied at VCA.”
VCA. That stopped me. Impressive.
“I haven’t touched it since,” she continued. “They said I wasn’t good enough.”
She wasn’t bitter. Just… resigned. Like the words had been said so often they were now facts.
“I trained to be a teacher after that, but I never felt like I fit in.”
She shrugged. “I just finished my training and assessor’s course. Not that I think I’m allowed to teach anything with it.”
Then, almost as a whisper: “Basically, I’m not good enough. I’m just trying to get back into it… purely for the sake of creativity.”
My heart tightened. Here she was, Cat, someone who had done everything I’d thought about doing. Studied at the dream school. Got the qualifications. Taken the practical path. And yet, here she was, doubting herself out loud.
The only difference between us wasn’t talent or experience. It was confidence.
“Cat,” I said, “do you realise you’re overqualified for half the art jobs out there? You could work in the education department at the NGV. Be a gallery assistant. Run workshops. Volunteer with arts organisations. You have so many options.”
She blinked. “Really?” Then, like a reflex: “But don’t I need this? Or that? Or more of… something?”
I could see her trying to build a case against herself out of paper walls.
Synchronicity is a blessed sign when we notice it. Only that morning, I had been worrying about the qualifications I didn’t have, thinking I needed to wait until something. Until I was ready. Until I had more. Yet, meeting Cat, I saw what an incredible woman she was, and how deeply she longed to return to her practice. In that moment, I realised: I was exactly where I needed to be.
It is in community and communion with others that we find our shared confidence.
We spend years collecting skills, knowledge, and passion—yet one small voice inside can silence it all with a single phrase: “Not good enough.” But what if the only thing we’re missing isn’t a qualification... it’s permission?
Maybe the real work of becoming is not learning more, but finally believing what we already are.
