On Fame and Wholeness

I think a lot about my internal drive for achievement, and, if I’m being completely honest, my drive for fame.

I suppose I shouldn’t call it unconscious—here I am, writing it down, staring it in the face.

Arthur Brooks, in a conversation with Dan Harris, spoke about the four idols: money, power, pleasure, and fame. These are the things we chase, the things that light up our dopamine receptors with rewards that are, paradoxically, never really satisfying.

And yet—they are satisfying, aren’t they? For a moment, at least.

For me, fame is the idol that whispers the loudest. But it’s not the conventional construct of fame. I don’t want flashing cameras or a household name. In fact, I’m certain the traditional idea of fame would destroy me. My chronically ill body couldn’t handle it. I’ve made my peace with not being a Broadway star. I’m not even all that interested in being a local “star.”

Still, there’s something in me that craves validation, a deep, unrelenting need to be seen. It’s sneaky, this drive—it shows up in ways I wish it didn’t. Pushing too hard in relationships. Saying yes to everything. Talking too much. Performing in ways that feel just a little too desperate. You get the idea, yes?

Insert your idol here.

The real question isn’t how to overcome these impulses—because let’s be honest, they never fully go away. The question is: How do you stop them from running your life?

For me, there are two mantras that have become lifelines, pulling me back to something deeper when I find myself tumbling into the fame idol rut.

The first is simple but profound: What is the smallest action I can take right now to move myself toward wholeness?

This question snaps me out of the daydream of validation. It grounds me. It pulls me back into the work itself—the creative process that carves deep grooves into my nervous system, grooves that feel steady, real, and enough.

The second mantra is about intimacy: Create for one person.

It’s abstract, of course. I know that my work might reach many people. But at the moment of creation, I focus on one. Who am I trying to connect with? How can I move them? This shift from performance to connection changes everything. It quiets the idol’s need for praise and redirects me toward intention.

That’s not to say I don’t want my work to resonate with a larger audience. I do. That resonance pays the bills, fuels my creative journey, and, yes, moves me closer to wholeness. But it’s not the driving force.

Here’s something else I’ve realized: I think about my deathbed a lot. I imagine the end of my life, not in a morbid way, but as a way to clarify the story. At the end of it all, I want my life to have carved deep, lasting grooves—not superficial strokes, but resonant marks that have moved others. Work that’s given people something they can carry with them, something that might nudge them toward their own sense of wholeness.

This is my creative spiritual practice: to create art that isn’t about me, but about us. About moving closer to what is real, what is lasting, what matters.

Fame fades. Wholeness stays. And in the quiet space of creation, that’s where I want to live.