The Only Validation You Need

The morning light slants through the blinds, casting stripes across my floor. I’m sitting here, a cup of vitamin water energy poised in my hands, as my brows wrinkle in concentration and resolve into a blank stare. I’m trying to articulate a feeling that’s been bubbling beneath the surface for what feels like forever. It’s a quiet, deep-seated truth that’s finally broken through the noise. I’ve been thinking about what it truly means to be passionate about something, and about how I’ve been getting it all wrong for so long. I think I’ve known intrinsically, but sometimes things have to really click before we can actually use their gravity.

For many years, and in my youth, I chased an idea of success that was always outside of myself. I’ve been an architect of my own projects, my own dreams, but the blueprints were always drawn with someone else’s eyes in mind. It was something I could not escape, placing the value, and even the artistry, at the will of what others thought. In my eyes, everything conscious is connected, and anything that is real, like colors and language, has all been agreed upon. What is considered good and what is considered bad most times has a majority tip in the scale.

So I would start something, writing, poetry, stories, a new business idea, and in my head, the first thought was almost always about the joy of the process itself. That’s where the passion lived. I can get excited at any moment thinking about the early stages of any project, that wild fervor. But soon, it became about the potential outcome. It became about the applause, the recognition, the validation. I’d imagine the book on a shelf, the magazine on a stand. I was building for an audience that wasn’t even there yet, and in doing so, I was setting myself up for an inevitable fall.

I see it so clearly now. The problem wasn’t the work itself; it was my reason for doing it. I was passionate, yes, but my passion was a fragile, conditional thing. It was a plant I was trying to grow in the shade, hoping it would blossom because someone else might one day water it. I’d get excited about a new idea, pour myself into it for a while, and then, as soon as the initial burst of energy faded, I’d start looking around. I’d check for likes, for shares, for comments. I’d wait for someone to notice, to praise, to say, “This is brilliant.” And when that didn’t happen, or when the response was lukewarm, a cold wave of disappointment would wash over me. The joy would drain out of the project, leaving me with a sense of emptiness and a nagging question: “Why am I even doing this?”

That’s the great folly, isn’t it? Building a house of cards and expecting the wind not to blow. I was asking other people to be the foundation of my passion. I was handing them the keys to my motivation, giving them the power to decide if my work had value. I was telling myself that my project was only worthy of my time and energy if it resonated with a sufficient number of strangers. This isn’t passion. It’s a plea for approval. And a plea is very shaky ground on which to build a life.

I’ve since come to understand that true passion is a solitary, self-sustaining fire. It’s the kind of fire you build in a quiet room, for no one but yourself. It’s the feeling of getting lost in a task, of the hours dissolving into a blur of concentration and creation, and emerging on the other side with a finished piece and a deep, quiet sense of satisfaction. It’s the feeling of loving the act of writing the words, not the idea of a bestseller. It’s the thrill of mixing the colors on the palette, not the fantasy of a museum exhibit. It’s the simple, profound joy of the thing itself.

This realization has been both a relief and a challenge. A relief, because it means I am no longer tethered to the whims and opinions of others. My creative fulfillment is now entirely within my own control. The only person I need to please is the me who is doing the work. And if I am doing it for the pure, unadulterated pleasure of the process, then every moment is a win. I don’t have to wait for anyone to come to the table. I can pull up a chair for myself and get to work.

But it’s also a challenge, because it forces me to confront a deeper question: What am I truly passionate about, when all the superficial motivators are stripped away? If I remove the possibility of fame, riches, or acclaim, what remains? What are the projects that still call to me, that I would pursue in a vacuum, just for the love of the chase? This is the question that I’m sitting with now, the one that makes this cup feel less weightless in my hands.

I’ve started to experiment with this new way of being. I’m writing now not with the thought of a future reader, but with the simple goal of getting the thoughts in my head onto the page. I’m painting a canvas just to see what happens when the brush meets the surface, not to create a masterpiece. And you know what? The work feels different. It feels lighter, more authentic, more mine. There’s a freedom in it that I’ve never experienced before. I’m not worried about whether it’s good enough for anyone else, because that’s not the point anymore. The point is the doing. The point is the creation.

This new path isn’t about giving up on success or recognition. It’s about redefining what success truly is. It’s about recognizing that the greatest success is not the external reward, but the internal one. It’s about finding satisfaction in the work itself, and letting the rest, the fame, the riches, the acclaim, be a potential, pleasant byproduct, not the primary goal. Because if those things never come, and I have built my passion on the love of the process, I will still be full. I will still have a project, a purpose, and a deep sense of contentment.

I’m learning to be a gardener of my own passions, tending to them for their own sake. I’m learning to love the soil and the seeds, the water and the sun, and to trust that if I do that, the flowers will bloom in their own time. And if they don’t, well, I will still have the beautiful, messy, fulfilling experience of having grown something. And right now, that feels like more than enough. It feels like everything.