People Resent Artists Because They’re Secretly Envious

Not everyone will admit this, but A LOT of people resent artists. And no, it’s not always about the money or the fame (though that plays its part). It goes further than that. It’s about freedom. It’s about the courage—the audacity—to live a life shaped by meaning, creativity, and self-expression.

And that freedom? It triggers something in others.

If you’re an artist, you’ve probably felt it. That subtle shift in energy when you tell someone what you do. The raised eyebrow when you share your art. That awkward pause when you name your rate. Or worse—the assumption that you’ll do it for free.

Because what you’re doing—living close to your truth, creating something from nothing, offering soul to the world—reminds people of something they once had… and gave up on. And that reminder? It often shows up as resentment.

You hear it in the quiet jabs:
“Can you perform for free?”
“Can you do it cheaper? It doesn’t take you long.”
“You’re so lucky. Most people hate their jobs.”

But what’s really being said underneath is: How dare you enjoy your work when I don’t?

You create, even when it’s hard. You share your heart, even when the world isn’t clapping. And somehow, you’re still expected to be grateful just for the chance to do it.

Creativity is everywhere. And yet… we rarely pause to think about you—the artist.

We live in a world that consumes art constantly—streaming music, bingeing shows, reading stories, decorating homes, even dressing with intention. Creativity is everywhere. And yet… we rarely pause to think about you—the artist. The one behind it. The one holding the vision.

You’ve probably been asked to work “for the exposure.” Told there’s no budget. Nudged into undervaluing your time because, well, “it’s your passion.” And you’ve likely wondered if you’re asking too much just by expecting to be paid.

Let’s be honest—if you were a lawyer or a plumber, no one would expect free labour. But because you love what you do, somehow, that becomes the reason you’re not supposed to be compensated for it. Why? Because your joy—your boldness in choosing expression over survival—unsettles something in a world that’s forgotten how to dream.

“You didn’t choose this path—it chose you. Being an artist isn’t a strategy. It’s a pull.”

But the truth is, you didn’t choose this path—it chose you. Being an artist isn’t a strategy. It’s a pull. You create because something in you demands it. Because not creating feels like soul-death. Because even when no one pays attention, you still hear the call.

And it’s not just individuals who struggle with that. Systems do, too.

Streaming platforms, record labels, gallery owners, publishers—so many of the platforms we rely on profit from your creativity while offering you crumbs. They wrap it up in words like “visibility” and “opportunity,” but underneath it, you know what it is: extraction. They benefit from your soul work while expecting your silence.

Yes, some artists “make it” and rise to fame and fortune. But for the rest of us, we create in the margins. We build something out of nothing, day after day, whether anyone’s watching or not.

And this isn’t new.

Van Gogh sold one painting in his lifetime. Frida Kahlo only rose to global acclaim after her death. Nina Simone, a force of truth and power, was underpaid, misunderstood, and often erased during the years she should have been celebrated most.

So many artists only become valuable once they’re gone—once the world feels safe enough to honour what it couldn’t hold when it was alive and raw and inconvenient.

“When the world looks back on this time, it won’t remember the spreadsheets. It’ll remember the art.”

This isn’t about talent. It’s about timing, power, and discomfort. It’s about society consuming art while forgetting the artist—until it’s too late.

We write. Paint. Compose. Sing. Sculpt. Stitch. We make things that don’t yet exist—and in doing so, we shape culture.

When the world looks back on this time, it won’t remember the spreadsheets. It’ll remember the music. The words. The colours. The movements. It’ll remember the art.

Still, you’re told to be grateful. To work harder. To accept that this is just the way it is.

But what if it’s not?

What if what’s actually happening is this: People aren’t devaluing you because what you do doesn’t matter. They’re devaluing you because it matters too much. Because you’ve chosen to follow something they don’t believe they could. And that my friend stirs something deep inside.

“Art isn’t soft. It’s dangerous.”

We’ve built a culture that feeds off the creative spirit while starving the creators. It wants your vision, but not your voice. Your gifts, but not your power. It wants what you make—but not the truth that made it.

And if you’re someone who’s ever hesitated to pay an artist what they’re worth—ask yourself why. Is it really about money? Or is it about the discomfort of seeing someone live a life you were told not to want?

Because art isn’t soft, it’s dangerous.

Ask any dictator—and they’ll tell you.
The first thing to go is the music. Then the books. Then the bodies of those brave enough to speak, move, paint, play, or imagine.

Authoritarianism doesn’t fear guns—it fears imagination. It fears the artist. Because the artist doesn’t follow rules. The artist remembers something deeper.

Maybe what people really resent isn’t you. Maybe it’s the part of themselves they’ve silenced. And maybe… by staying true to your expression, you’re holding the door open for them to come back home to theirs.

Creative work holds power. The creative process holds value. It always has.

Let’s stop pretending this is soft work. Let’s stop calling it a side gig or a nice-to-have. Let’s see expression as essential—not a luxury, but a cornerstone of our humanity and our evolution.

Being an independent artist IS the radical act. And you’re certainly not wrong for choosing a life where creativity leads.

What part of you is tired of being quiet about your creative worth?
And what might be possible if you stopped apologising for it?

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