The Performance No One Asked For
Some people spend their lives chasing success or love.
Mine’s always been validation. It was subtle, like oxygen, something I thought I needed to survive. But lately, I’ve realized my purpose isn’t to impress anyone. It’s to be my own witness, to see myself clearly, without performance.
The Applause Problem
I’ve gotten better at following my heart. Yet this is where I still stumble most. The best example is this blog. I write from my chest, proud of the words, but don’t fully believe in them until someone else does. One comment, one tiny spark of validation, makes the work feel real. That’s still the child in me waiting for proof I’ve done well instead of trusting that it’s good simply because I feel it is.
I don’t kid myself into thinking that many people read this blog. Of course, I’d love a wide audience, but the truth is I love the writing itself. Still, beneath that love is a quiet, persistent insecurity, a voice that whispers I’m not good enough, that I can’t trust my own sense of when the work is enough. And the darker part is knowing I still crave the praise and validation, even though that high only lasts a moment.
This isn’t a ploy for compliments. That would be peak cringe. It’s just me naming what’s here and tracing the edges of a feeling that keeps showing up.
Performing for a Crowd That Isn’t There
I dream of a writing career. I want to share words that reach people and remind them they’re not alone. I can picture it clearly, the quiet connection between writer and reader, that invisible thread. Yet even when I get positive feedback, I don’t fully believe it, or I find myself wanting more.
No one else is putting this pressure on me. No one has said anything cruel about my writing, at least not to my face. It’s me, performing for an audience that doesn’t exist, chasing applause that only I can truly give myself.
The Roles We Outgrow
Astrologically, I’m a Leo rising. I used to joke that it meant craving attention, but an astrologer once said it’s deeper. She said my chart showed I was always “being watched” as a child, the appeaser, distraction, scapegoat. Suddenly, it made sense why I felt I had to perform.
Whether or not you believe in astrology, hearing a stranger articulate how I grew up believing my worth depended on attention gave language to a feeling I never named.
But I was never exceptional at anything. Perfectionism became a wall I couldn’t climb. If I wasn’t great right away, I quit. I thought it meant I wasn’t good enough, but it goes deeper. If I’m not good enough, then what am I good for?
The Real Fear
It goes beyond writing. When I reflect, the fear isn’t being disliked. It’s not having a purpose. I keep performing to fill a gap I’ve convinced myself exists.
This same astrologer also told me I would never be happy if I kept oversharing the way I have been. I tend to overshare in an effort to explain myself and get the audience to take my side, whether I’m right or not. I’ve dialed it back a little, and I can see how she might have been right in certain moments.
And unsurprisingly, performing is what disconnects me the most. I know I can come across as distant at times. It’s hard to open up when you’re still trying to step out of your own performance.
Learning to Be Enough
Eventually, I realized no one can want it for you. Love can surround you, but only you can make it real, and only you can bear the weight of receiving it.
You have to trust yourself enough to believe it will work out. Easier said than done, but maybe that’s where happiness begins.
Joy borrowed from others never lasts. People can bring light, but peace is something you build from within.
I used to think I needed the crowd. The applause, the eyes, the proof that I was enough. But maybe all along, I just needed to trust the quiet voice within me, the one that was mine from the start.
