Tears. Lots and lots of tears. Marc even hugged me last week. It was more of a chokehold, which, incidentally, is just how my emotionally uncomfortable dad embraces me too.

I cried every day last week. I’m not uncomfortable about crying, I had a period when I used to do it most days – roughly 20 years ago. And again as a depressed teenager.

It’s not the crying, it’s more why. We haven’t finished yet and I feel like a failure. Like a loser.

Struggling with team branding and I’m told, ‘Sell yourself. Why should I buy you?’, and frankly, my response is that I wouldn’t.

I look at the other brilliantly clever, flourishing teams in the studio around me and those are the people I would hire. Not me.

The worst thing is, I’m definitely bringing down my partner. Not only as an Art Director but also as a fun succubus. A stress-seeping, snot-nosed, monotoned mess. Who would want to work with that? Where’re the vibes? I used to be fun, swear.

Frustration. Spinning in a circle, looking at my campaigns with soulless, shark-eyes and resentment. A pit of disgust, fear, and loathing welling up inside me.

¿Dónde están las grandes ideas?

Some of the mentors have been massively helpful. My peers too, of course. There are shared emotions and understanding in this studio. There is compassion and empathy. Safe in the knowledge that these feelings are not new nor unique. Even my boyfriend is spending his free time reassuring me that he’ll help make the work look better and it’s going to be alright.

We’ll be okay, is what everyone says. But sometimes people aren’t. People fail all the time.

I’m the youngest in the room. Perhaps I’m too young? Perhaps I’m just too straight-up sensitive for such an emotionally taxing and exhausting career. I have a theory that the best work I’ve done here was my presentation to get in.

Apparently, this is how I’m always going to feel as a Creative. Why aren’t I winning awards? Why aren’t I as good as those guys? Why isn’t this working? Why’s my work shit?

Doomed to a life of low self-esteem and self-flagellation. A professional masochist.

To end a story on a high, as I think you’re supposed to with storytelling, there are some alright things. I like my partner and I am not a Single. Joe is good. We get along well and I like our ideas. It feels like working with one of my brothers and because he’s quite emotionless, it evens out the collective feels. People are supportive and you feel like you are amongst friends even when you’re being a real wet blanket. Marc has complimented me. I assume because he doesn’t want to deal with paperwork if I yeet myself over the balcony. It is nice.

Got a roof, hot food, good health and dogs. Things could be worse.