What If You Never Become “Somebody”?

This is a rant.

Tucked up and tired, I’ve spiralled into the usual existential ponderings — mostly about my career, or lack of it. Cue the comparison game: me vs. the fantasy version of Bree who, by now, was meant to have it all figured out.

Then a voice plonks into my mind — “you’ve ended up being a nobody.” She spits.

Rude. Judgy. Unmistakably 15-year-old me. That girl was obsessed with being significant. I’ve only recently realised how often she still lingers, farting her doubts all over my adult self in my big boring adult life.

Me, existing within adult life, not appreciating my adult treats (a winery).

She’s the one who kicks off meltdowns about being underpaid, undervalued, and missing the shiny markers of success — mortgage, holidays, bank account that doesn’t scream loser-pants. She never stops to notice the richness I do have — a roof over my head, a hilarious little son, a growing side hustle that actually matters to me. But to her, love and worth come from doing something impressive. Something big. Something that makes the youth throw words like rizz, jizz, fizz in my direction.

Hello Backstreet Boys: Tell me why. Why does the mind crave to be adored? Why do a few of us quietly fear a life of perceived insignificance?

Of course we want validation — we’re human. I’m not here to dish out “the only approval you need is your own” line. It’s a good foundation, but let’s be honest: we’re wired for connection. Even the most self-contained of us probably care — at least a little — about how we’re seen by the people closest to us. Do they get us? Are they really present with us? That stuff matters.

But there’s another level : the craving for macro significance. To be widely adored. And in today’s world, that desire is dialled way up. Everyone’s performing on TikTok and Instagram, flopping about in little rectangles for likes and shares. And I get it. I want my art to be seen too. Acknowledged. But lately I’ve been asking: what’s the difference between one thoughtful friend reading my work and 100,000 strangers scrolling past it?

Fame can be a reparative fantasy — “If I’m known, I matter.”

For some, that drive lands them in power. Sometimes in industries they don’t even like. Sometimes it warps — people who’ve felt powerless seek status so they can be the ones doing the stamping, instead of being stamped on.

Yet here’s the thing I’m learning fast: none of that matters if I can’t be still with myself first. Be present with me. Make art for me. My creative mentor helped me form a mantra:

“I lead myself toward fostering intimacy between ‘me’ and the creative work.”

That ‘me’ came out in quotation marks because, truthfully, I don’t fully see her yet. I miss the nuance. The quiet strength in my unsent drafts. The parts of me that still hide.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting your work acknowledged. But chasing mass validation for your identity? That’s where it gets shaky. There’s beauty in all the boring bits — the trackie-dack, biscuit-munching, ‘just being alive’ bits. There’s freedom in knowing you have value even when you’re not being watched.

Before you try to make your mark on the world, make one on yourself — gently, deeply, and for real. Every nobody is a somebody. Including you.