Charles Schulz once told his first wife that if he ever saw a psychiatrist, it might ruin his work. The creator of Peanuts — one of the most beloved comic strips in history — feared that getting rid of his inner struggles would also take away the well he drew from. And maybe he was right, in a way most of us who create can understand.
Schulz’s comics were warm, funny, and deeply human, but they were also tinged with melancholy. Charlie Brown’s endless defeats, Lucy’s cynicism, Linus’s faith — they all came from a mind that wrestled with insecurity and even loneliness, despite a wife and kids (he later divorced his first wife and remarried). For all his success, Schulz was often haunted by the feeling that he didn’t quite measure up.
That’s something I’ve lived, too.
I’ve received notes and messages from people who think I’m confident — colleagues, editors, even clients who call me “a natural storyteller” or “a great writer who really gets it.” When I was downsized from Christie, the farewell notes said things like “you have a real knack for finding the story” and “your writing always stands out.” And yet, I remember sitting at my home office rereading them and feeling almost detached, like they were describing someone else.
It’s strange how the mind can dismiss what the world reflects back at us. Among my more public works over two decades or so, I’ve written numerous profiles that editors praised, readers loved, and publications featured prominently — two pieces each for Sports Illustrated, Golf World, and Golf Australia that were well-received, with one being a cover story. But inside, I felt one had missed the mark and the others were only “okay.” It’s as if the internal bar keeps rising no matter how high the external praise climbs.
There’s a quiet war that happens between what we know and what we feel. Rationally, we know the work is good. We know we’ve done the research, shaped the story, met the deadline, hit the right tone. But emotionally, something whispers, Sure, but it could have been better. You’re lucky this one turned out. They’ll see through you next time.
Maybe Schulz understood that voice too well. Maybe that’s why he drew Charlie Brown trying — and failing — again and again, only to keep showing up. There’s truth in that kind of persistence. Not the motivational-poster kind, but the kind that says, I’m not sure I belong here, but I’ll keep creating anyway.
I’ve learned that confidence and talent don’t always speak the same language. Talent shows up on the page. Confidence wavers somewhere between drafts. And the trick, I think, isn’t to silence the doubt but to work alongside it — to let it sharpen you, not stop you.
Every writer, artist, musician, or designer carries some version of this contradiction. The ones who keep going aren’t the ones who never doubt — they’re the ones who write, paint, compose, or build through it.
So when I look back now at those old emails, the LinkedIn endorsements, the kind words from people who meant them sincerely, I try to see them differently. Maybe they were describing the version of me that only appears after the battle — the one who finishes, delivers, and moves quietly to the next assignment.
That version is still me. And maybe that’s the same truth Schulz lived by: the talent isn’t what you have because you suffer; it’s what you keep doing despite it.
John Berkovich Talks 