INFJ and INFP personality types are two of the most creative personality types among all the 16 types. We love art, writing, color, beauty, and finding the deeper meaning behind everything. However, as a writing coach who specializes in working with INFJ and INFP writers, I can tell you that I’ve worked with so many people of either type who have said to me:
“I know I’m creative, so why is it so hard for me to express it?”
Creativity is a concept that seems to be discussed endlessly these days. There are websites and articles and books and all sorts of exercises on “how to be more creative,” “how to reconnect with your creativity,” and “why creativity is so important.” A lot of these resources offer helpful tips, but many also miss the mark entirely.
The thing about being highly creative is that it’s not all about thinking. This is hard for us to grasp, because as a society, we’re all programmed with the belief that pretty much everything comes down to how we can think harder, think smarter, or think faster. So, when you pick up a popular book on creativity or your manager at work tells you she wants you to be more creative, chances are that you’re being pushed to “think outside the box,” or, “think bigger,” or, in the words of Apple, “think different.”
Think, think, think.
But being highly creative is not just about thinking.
Today’s guest post comes from Sarah Terry. Sarah is a counsellor working in schools in the UK. She is also the author of “Inside the Teenage Mind” and hosts a YouTube channel where she gives mental health hints, tips and advice. Sarah also provides self-help online courses for a variety of mental health issues. You can learn more at www.sarahterry.co.uk.
I discovered I was an introvert around eight years ago when I literally felt like I was going mad. I had even been to my doctor to ask about early menopause and would often cry for no reason, pushing away those I loved.
I was working in a busy, open plan office at the time. My managers sat on the same desk pod as me and I constantly felt scrutinised. Although this wasn’t necessarily the case, my interpretation of the environment was such that I felt like a hopeless goldfish, doomed to provide entertainment to all passers-by. I would come home from work and cry, unable to vocally articulate to my (extroverted) husband what I was feeling, much less why.
One of the most frequent questions I get from INFJs and INFPs who are thinking about becoming a coach has to do with imposter syndrome. And this makes a lot of sense, because when we imagine what being a coach would be like, we usually see ourselves giving clients advice and acting in the role of “expert.” If you look around at mainstream coaching programs, this view is encouraged. Aspiring coaches are urged to choose an uber-specific niche and get as much training as possible in order to fulfill this “expert” role.
I understand this point of view, because when I first started out as a coach, I was doing the very same thing. I felt really insecure, about my knowledge and my abilities. I felt a strong calling to help people, and I had always been a natural counselor to my friends and family, but when it came to setting up shop as an actual coach, all the fears and doubts crept in. I thought that people would expect me to be an expert, and the closer I could get to this expert status, the more confident I would feel about being a coach.
Flash forward to now. I’ve been coaching for over seven years, I have a packed coaching schedule every week, I’m booking people three months in advance, and I’m teaching aspiring coaches how to coach.
I’ve worked as a writing coach with INFJ and INFP writers for over seven years now, and I continue to see the same blocks over and over. Every time a writer comes to me with issues around feeling like they can’t get started, they can’t stick with one thing, they can’t follow through with something until the end, we peel back the layers and I always find the same myths about writing and creating—the exact same limiting beliefs—over and over again.
There’s a whole list of these damaging myths that run rampant through the mind of a struggling INFJ or INFP writer, but there is one I hear about more than any other. This myth is so insidious, and it undermines our creative efforts so effectively, because, on the surface, it sounds so reasonable. It seems so sensible and logical that it’s really, really hard for the INFJ or INFP writer to call bullshit on it. And as you read it here, you may even find yourself agreeing with it: