I think I’ve been chasing validation since I was born.
From the playground to high school, I can trace it, that quiet desire to be liked, accepted, chosen. Back then it looked like trying to say the right thing to make friends or wondering if the boy I liked really liked me back. As I got older, that need for validation found a new home online. MySpace became my first stage. I loved posting photos and watching the likes roll in. It felt like a small dose of belonging, until it didn’t.
Maybe you’ve felt that too… that rush of being noticed, followed by the quiet emptiness that comes when the attention fades.
When Instagram came along, I grew up on it. I was in my twenties, shaping my art, my voice, and my identity all in real time. What started as creative expression slowly blurred into performance. Validation wasn’t just emotional anymore, it was professional. Follower counts, engagement rates, impressions. Things that sound like metrics but start to feel like self-worth.
I used to think being seen meant being loved. I see now that I was just trying to prove I was enough.
By twenty-five, I hit a wall. I had experienced the kind of external success that looks great on paper, but I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. I had lost friends, battled anxiety, relied on substances, and questioned everything. One day something shifted. I realized I didn’t have to believe every thought my brain told me. I could choose what I focused on. That was the moment I started rebuilding my life from the inside out. I read more, ate better, worked out, reconnected with my family, and distanced myself from people who didn’t pour into me.
That was also when I started my sunrise project, capturing the sunrise every single day from my window. That project changed everything. It reminded me that life, like the sunrise, shows up new every day, sometimes brilliant, sometimes soft, always worth noticing.
Maybe that’s where real validation begins: noticing the ordinary and calling it beautiful anyway.
My creative process became about presence, not performance. I stopped creating for applause and started creating because I loved how it made me feel.
For a long time I thought I needed to drink or smoke to feel confident, to be interesting, to be social. When I stopped, when I gave myself permission to simply be, I realized I was better without it. Quitting wasn’t easy. The withdrawals were rough. But after two years of meditating every single day, working out consistently, and reading daily, I reached a quiet truth. I don’t need to escape my own presence anymore. I don’t need to perform my peace. I can live it.
If you’re trying to untangle your worth from visibility, start with moments that belong only to you. Watch a sunrise. Sit still for ten minutes. Make something no one will ever see. That’s where peace starts growing.
Now when I create, I check in with myself first. Am I forcing this, or am I having fun? If it feels forced, I walk away. Life should feel fluid, not stressful. If it’s meant for me, it will never require me to compromise my peace to finish it.
Authenticity to me means doing what feels right, without distraction, without trying to predict outcomes, without bending who you are for someone else’s comfort. Humans are blessed with the ability to feel, to analyze, to choose. That’s authenticity. A conscious decision to stay real. Animals don’t worry about judgment. They just are. That’s the level of truth I try to live by.
Of course I still struggle sometimes. If I meet someone I admire and they don’t follow me back, it stings. It’s a small thing, but it reminds me that some parts of me still crave reciprocation. And that’s okay. The difference is that now, I protect my peace instead of abandoning it.
It feels good to create because it feels right, not because it performs well. It’s freeing. It’s peaceful. When I create from that place, it flows quickly and effortlessly. When I don’t, I feel it in my body, the stress, the tension, the unease. I’ve learned that my worth isn’t tied to how many people are watching. It’s measured by how aligned I feel with myself. Every day I show up for me. I run, I lift, I meditate, I read. I’ve done a meditation every single day for almost a year straight now, and the stillness has become my teacher. Without it, I start letting others decide how I feel. With it, I remember that I hold the keys.
If you feel invisible without engagement or recognition, ask yourself how long that feeling can sustain you. I’ve been at the top. I’ve sold NFTs, gone viral, worked with brands. And I’ve learned that attention is fleeting. People often show up for what they can gain, not always for who you are. When the noise fades, can you still stand in the quiet?
Everyone has a peak, but not everyone honors the low. The lows matter because they teach gratitude. They make you appreciate the little things that stay: breathing, sleeping, eating, laughing, crying, creating. Those are the things that matter when the spotlight dims.
I see technology as both a mirror and a tool. It reflects our desire to be seen but also gives us endless ways to express who we really are. I joined Instagram back in 2011 just wanting to share art, not for fame or money or a career, just to be heard. That’s still the part that feels the most pure.
Now, when I step on a stage or into a community event with Adobe, I have no choice but to come as myself. There’s no filter or hiding. It’s just me, my voice, my face, my truth. That’s freeing. It’s proof that you don’t need to be perfect to be powerful.
Learning to be seen without needing validation isn’t a one-time lesson. It’s a practice. Some days I still crave approval. Some days I still wonder if I’m enough. But I keep choosing to root myself in gratitude, not comparison. Gratitude is what keeps us sane. It reminds us that the mundane is the miracle.
We all want to be seen, but maybe the real work is learning to see ourselves first.
What does peace look like for you when no one’s watching?