It’s always struck me how many of the world’s greatest artists carried heavy shadows. Charles Schulz, creator of Peanuts, often battled depression. Hemingway’s brilliance came with darkness that eventually swallowed him. Beethoven poured both fury and beauty into his music while fighting deafness and despair. And that list could stretch for pages, featuring writers, painters, actors, and musicians, all leaving legacies marked by both genius and struggle.
Why is it that so many creative people wrestle with what we now call mood disorders? Is it a coincidence, or is there something in the creative mind that makes the highs higher and the lows lower?
If there’s one common thread among creatives, it’s sensitivity. We notice things others don’t. The slight hesitation in someone’s voice. The way light filters through blinds. The rhythm of a city street. That sensitivity is the engine of creativity, allowing us to capture truth in words, images, or sound.
But heightened perception cuts both ways. It means joy can be ecstatic, but sadness can feel crushing. Where others shrug off a slight or a setback, a creative mind might carry it for days. I don’t know how many times I’ve been creative and productive while in the throes of mental health struggles.
There’s also the way we think. Most people swipe a credit card and forget about it. I’ve read about, memorized, and internalized what actually happens in those milliseconds behind the scenes: the authentication, the bank checks, the virtual handshake between machines, “Yeah, he’s good for it.” Ninety-nine percent of people don’t know or care how it all works.
That relentless curiosity – a desire to understand how everything works – fuels creativity. It’s the drive that makes us dig until we hit something deeper. But it also makes us prone to overthinking. Instead of letting thoughts pass, we endlessly turn them over, analyzing them from every angle until they feel “right.” But they seldom do unless we force our mind to shift elsewhere by sheer act of will. A small problem becomes a sprawling labyrinth.
I’ll give a recent example. I was posting a story for a client and spent over an hour deciding which image they provided would be the main one. I had a choice of four and went back and forth many times. Is this the right one? The background is a touch fuzzy. Is this the better one – yeah, but it doesn’t tell exactly what I want – almost, but not quite. And on it went. Actually, any of them were acceptable to the editor but even after publication (and I did make the right choice, judging by what went live), I was like, “Well, you know, this one …” No wonder my hair started going gray in my twenties. It would likely have been worse had they been my own photos instead of the submitted ones. I don’t usually go quite as far as I did this time, but on occasion, I do.
For many creatives, it’s not enough for something to simply work; it has to mean something. Schulz didn’t just draw a boy, the neighborhood kids, and his dog; he created a world where loneliness, longing, and hope lived side-by-side with laughter. Hemingway’s prose wasn’t only about fishing trips or war – it was about isolation, courage, and the cost of being human. Beethoven didn’t write music just to fill silence; he poured his soul into symphonies that still make us feel his struggle centuries later.
When your craft depends on plumbing emotional depths, you don’t just dip your toe in the water; you dive. And sometimes, you stay under too long.
Creatives often feel “different.” We see the world at a slant. That’s part of what allows us to bring fresh perspectives, to notice the absurdities, to challenge the obvious. But difference can be isolating. The sense of being on the outside looking in can spark art but it can also feed a part of you that is never fulfilled and probably never can be.
Isolation is fertile ground for mood struggles. The more time we spend in our own heads, the easier it becomes to spiral out of control. And yet, paradoxically, that same sense of otherness is what gives our work its edge.
Of course, it’s not all philosophical. Science has weighed in, too. Studies have shown links between creativity and mood disorders. Creative brains often show irregular patterns in dopamine regulation, higher activity in regions tied to rumination, and sleep cycles that don’t match the rest of society’s. In plain terms: the same wiring that allows a creative leap can also destabilize mood. It’s like running a race car engine. The power is incredible but it’s also more prone to breakdowns.
So what do we make of all this? Should we envy those who “never seem to get down,” the ones who appear steady no matter what? Maybe. But maybe not. Because those who don’t feel the lows may also never experience the same highs.
The creative mind thrives in tension. We suffer because we feel deeply but we create for the very same reason. Our art stems from sensitivity, from analysis, from the relentless search for meaning, from the outsider’s perspective, and even from our neurochemistry. The struggle isn’t separate from the creativity; it’s interwoven with it.
Like John Nash in A Beautiful Mind (the movie version), we learn over time to practice a “diet of the mind” and choose which thoughts to feed, which to starve. It’s not perfect. The shadows don’t disappear. But with practice, the creative learns to live with them, even to turn them into fuel.
The next time you think of Schulz, Hemingway, or Beethoven, don’t see only the suffering. See how they channeled it. They didn’t escape their struggles, but they transformed them into art that continues to move us.
And that’s the quiet truth about creatives: we don’t just endure the lows. We convert them. The same mind that spirals can also rise, create, and leave behind something that helps others feel less alone. That’s not weakness, that’s alchemy.
John Berkovich Talks 