Self Maid

One of the most exciting exposures thanks to the social-media era is the sheer abundance of talent on display. Scroll through any corner of the internet (while skillfully dodging brain rot content and A.I. slop) and you will find a vast landscape of writers, musicians, designers, and artists, each seemingly more skilled, more polished, more articulate than the last. It raises an unsettling question (one that has plagued me my entire life): in a world already brimming with brilliance, what compels someone to enter the fray at all?

It feels like everywhere I look, there’s evidence that I’m not at the top of anything I’m interested in. Not that I have ever aspired to be the best at anything, it’s just not how I function (I’m kind of a professional dilettante), but I’ve at least hoped I could provide an edge, or a uniqueness. But with every new newsletter popping into my inbox, I too realize almost none of my experiences and observations worthy of sharing are unique.

The paradox is clear: never has it been easier to publish, and never has it been more difficult to feel seen.

Of course, growing up at the same time that the internet was taking over only amplified this feeling in me. Every scroll, every new piece of content, every tweet, blog post, or interview is another reminder that there are people out there who are better, faster, and more brilliant on their toes than I could ever be. The democratization of platforms ensures visibility but also sharpens comparison. To attempt to “make it” in such an environment requires either extraordinary self-belief or an ability to detach from the incessant metrics of talent and recognition.

As a hobby writer, I see strangers online who can effortlessly weave words into something entertaining and informative. I see past colleagues and acquaintances who seem to have a natural flair for storytelling that make you reflect on your own perspectives or feel something. And then there’s me, sitting here with post-pandemic brain rot, struggling to remember grammar rules I used to know like the back of my hand and how to make sentences land in a way that doesn’t sound artless.

So I wonder how my peers handle that. How do others find the courage to keep showing up, knowing that they will just be another cog in a wheel that goes nowhere? Do they ignore the comparison entirely? Do they convince themselves that “good enough” is still worth pursuing? Does anyone else feel like me and think, “why bother when there’s little chance you’ll have it made?“

It’s not that I don’t enjoy writing (or photographing, or designing, or jewelry making, etc. etc.). I do. But passion gets tangled with doubt when I’m faced with all the evidence that I might just be one of many who will never quite break through, never quite stand out. And when I see others who are wider-eyed than me, who keep creating and putting themselves out there despite knowing the competition, I can’t help but wonder: what do they know that I don’t? What do they tell themselves that I can’t? Perhaps they understand something fundamental: that creation is not only about surpassing others but about sustaining a practice. That even in a saturated field, there is value in the act of contributing, whether or not it reshapes the canon. I’m just not sure that’s enough for me.

The question then shifts from “Why bother if I can’t move the needle?” to “What does it mean to create if having an impact or finding success is not even the goal?” Maybe the goal is simply the act itself: being disciplined, vulnerable, and creative.