I'm barely 25 myself, but watching these fresh-faced creators—these barely-legal artistic forces—stumble into the creative scene has me feeling like both a mentor and a peer. They remind me of my own chaotic entrance just a few years ago, except they're doing it with even more audacity and fewer fucks to give.

Raw as Hell and Twice as Interesting

Let me tell you what fascinates me about these kids: they haven't been beaten down yet. They haven't had their edges sanded off by rejection emails and client feedback. They're making art that:

• Bleeds emotion all over the page without apology
• Breaks rules they didn't even know existed
• Contains technical flaws that somehow make it more compelling
• Feels urgent because to them, it absolutely is

I see myself in them—that same desperate need to create before you even know what the hell you're doing. That's the magic I'm trying to hold onto in my own work, even as I learn the industry ropes.

Identity Crisis on Steroids

I watch these young creators trying to do everything at once, and I get it. I'm still there myself most days:

• Building a brand while still figuring out who I am
• Trying to sound professional in emails while screaming into my pillow about deadlines
• Making content for platforms that might die before my student loans
• Processing my own trauma while trying to transform it into art that pays rent

It's absolute chaos, but there's something beautiful about this phase—when you're throwing everything at the wall without knowing what will stick. Some of my best work came from this messy period, and I'm fighting to keep that energy alive.

Emotional Hurricanes with WiFi

Everything hits harder when you're new. I remember my first bad review felt like someone had stabbed me. My first viral moment felt like I'd conquered Everest. These kids are living in that emotional hurricane right now, and it shows in their work.

Their poetry makes you feel sucker-punched. Their music makes you remember feelings you've spent years trying to numb. Their films make you uncomfortable in ways that polished productions never could. They haven't learned to dull their emotions for comfort, and their work is all the better for it.

Digital Natives on Creative Steroids

Unlike me, who at least remembers a time before social media dominated everything, these kids came out of the womb with an Instagram aesthetic:

• They intuitively understand platform algorithms I still struggle with
• They build audiences overnight that took me years to cultivate
• They learn software in days that took me months to master
• They're fearless about putting themselves out there in ways I'm still working on

But I also see the toll it takes:

• The constant comparison trap I'm still fighting myself
• The pressure to be "on" across multiple platforms 24/7
• The public identity crisis I went through privately
• The overwhelming feedback before they've found their voice

Embrace the Beautiful Disaster

What I want these younger creators to know—what I wish someone had told me—is that the mess IS the magic. The uncertainty, the technical flaws, the raw emotion, the wild experimentation—that's the good shit. That's what makes your work yours.

I'm still learning this lesson myself. Still fighting the urge to sanitize my work, to make it more "professional," more palatable. But my best stuff has always come from embracing the chaos, from writing with my heart bleeding all over the keyboard.

The creative world doesn't need more safe, sanitized bullshit. It needs your messy, complicated truth. It needs your audacity and your fresh perspective. It needs you to take life by the balls and make shit happen while the rest of us are still making to-do lists.

So here's to all of us young creators—some just starting, some a few years in—figuring it out as we go and making beautiful disasters along the way.