Why I started creating, and why I keep stopping
A photo from Boston taken in August that I posted last week.
Do you know what the height of irony is?
I started this specific post—a post about why I started creating and why I keep stopping, mind you—back in March of 2025. Well, here I am returning to it 10 months later. Shakespeare couldn’t write something this poetic.
With that little editorial note out of the way, allow me to set the stage.
The year is 2020.
We entered a new decade, and I started my final semester in college, overflowing with optimism about the next chapter of my life, only to have it swiftly crushed by the pandemic. I wrote about this time four years ago and explored why I wanted to embark on this creative journey.
Here’s the Sparknotes version:
During lockdowns, I discovered Peter McKinnon and Yes Theory on YouTube, and decided I wanted to explore my creativity through photography and filmmaking.
It took me eight months to publish my first video because of my crippling fear of judgment and making an ass out of myself publicly.
I fell in love with the process and wanted to become a content creator to share my stories.
Then, life happened.
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Stagnation from procrastination
As I watched my favorite YouTubers and read the works of notable authors, I was in awe of the mastery they commanded over their craft. Whether it was beautiful visuals enveloping an inspiring story or fantastic writing that made mine sound like a toddler’s, I realized that countless miles separated me from these professionals.
At first, that didn’t deter me. I knew that none of them started at their current level—no one ever does. It takes a deliberate, consistent, and concerted effort over years to reach that point. Once it dawned on me just how much work it would take, the cracks started to appear.
My first excuse was that I didn’t have time because of my job (I worked from home, had zero responsibilities, and plenty of time). Instead, I’d start creating when I’m back in graduate school.
When I went back to school, I actually had much less time than I did when I worked. Crap. Now I have to wait until I graduate.
Once I graduated, I thought now was the time, but finding a job is itself a full-time job. I can’t do it now, I have to wait until I have a job and live alone. Then I’ll really put pedal to the metal.
And here we are. Nearly three years of living alone, all the free time in the world, and all I had to show for it were one video and a few blog posts.
To say I’m disappointed at my lack of output would be putting it too kindly. I’m a single guy with no responsibilities, complaining that my skills are atrophying because I don’t put in enough time to create meaningful work and improve those skills. That’s when I found myself stuck in a vicious loop of stagnation—one that I’m fighting to this day.
At this point, I wondered if I was truly passionate about any of this. Do I want to actually invest the time in creating? Or was I just riding a high in 2020 that has since dissipated?
After a long period of deep reflection (seriously, it took me embarrassingly long to figure this out), I finally pinpointed the real culprit that shackled me all this time.
Validation, anyone?
I’ve been a people pleaser all my life.
Ever since I could remember, the only thing I ever wanted was the approval of others—to be heard, to be seen, to be loved. I was willing to go to extreme lengths—including saying things I didn’t believe in—to reach that point.
The approval of others was the coveted trophy I desired more than anything else. That feeling of belonging to a group is one I lacked as a child, and one I was adamant about getting as an adult. To achieve it, I became a pushover and went along with whatever anyone said just to pay my dues and maintain my membership in that group. Unsurprisingly, it dealt an unforgiving blow to my confidence. After a few years and some life experiences under my belt, it finally hit me:
I no longer create because I’m still afraid of being judged by that same group.
As dumb as it sounds, that belief still has me in a stranglehold. I’m terrified of living my dream in public and sharing a piece of work I put my heart and soul into, only to have others stomp on it. Adding insult to injury, many creators who started around the same time I did had amassed hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of followers by sticking with it and creating consistently.
Yet, followers aren’t the reason any sane person does this work—that’s the quickest road to burnout. The real value lies in seeing your work quality improve iteratively. With every piece, you hone your skills further until you reach a level of mastery you only dreamt of. Those creators reached that point, while I lay in the swamp of my own inaction, wondering when my time would come to finally pack up the courage to put my work out there—haters be damned.
The year everything clicked
Journaling has always eluded me.
I never understood the point of writing something you’ll never share with the world, but I did try it a few times throughout my life. A couple of entries here and there allowed me to scream into the void of my notebook about whatever it was that was plaguing my mind at the time. It never stuck with me, however, until I stumbled upon Stoicism.
I only ever learned about it through secondhand accounts without understanding the core of the philosophy. That’s why almost one year ago, I picked up Ryan Holiday’s The Daily Stoic and its journal to explore what this ancient philosophy has to offer in the 21st century. The effects were…not immediate. It took nearly six months of consistent reading and journaling for it to start sinking in. At that point, journaling finally became a cornerstone in my life after years of futile effort.
Stoicism transformed my thoughts, but hadn’t yet seeped down into my actions. I had mastered two habits in my life: exercise and learning Japanese. The one that was impossible to nail down at this point was my creative work. The fear of judgment lurked behind every corner—in every photo, video script, and blog post. I was still that kid, terrified of being ousted from a group that I hadn’t interacted with in over a decade. What will they say if they see the nonsense I’m doing?
What finally shook me out of my complacent slumber was realizing that 2025 was coming to an end. This was, by far, the fastest year of my life. It was gut-wrenching to know that I’ve entered the last two years of my 20s and filled an entire row of this calendar with nothing to show for it.
A life calendar that assumes you’ll live an ambitious 88 years, with each circle representing one week.
That’s when I realized that I had only just started climbing the Stoic mountain that Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, and Seneca had peaked. I knew I couldn’t afford to waste any more time.
So, as the youngins say, it was time to lock in.
2026 and beyond
If my life were a Shonen anime, then the first half of 2026 would be my training arc. My focus will be on myself, and myself alone.
I’ll exercise more, eat healthier, start holding conversations in Japanese, and, most importantly, show up every single day to create something. Mastering the art of showing up consistently is often more difficult than the work itself. All that matters is taking one small step on the project I’m working on, come hell or high water.
After all, getting good at photography, writing, and filmmaking doesn’t happen by accident. It takes deliberate, consistent effort over years just to stop despising your own work.
I finally broke the dam of inaction when I published the first of a series of photos I took on my hiking trip last summer. Now, I’m building a system that allows me to be a prolific and consistent creator. That system, however, is strictly contingent upon my tolerance of cringing at myself when I hit “publish.” While people decide if my project is a masterpiece or an abomination, I’ll be busy creating the next, so they can pass their judgment on to that one as well.
Will this all end in failure? Well, that depends on how you define it. If it’s growing my follower count and swimming in a sea of adoration and likes, then yes, probably. But the definition I’m going with is whether I’ll have any regrets on my deathbed. Seen through that lens, I’d much rather be embarrassed for trying than regretful I didn’t.
Some reminders I have pasted on my desk.
Eventually, after I’ve put in enough reps, my identity will shift from being a guy trying to create to a professional who cannot go a day without creating. It’ll be ingrained in my DNA just as exercise and learning Japanese have been. What makes this one exceptionally difficult, though, is that creative work is inherently vulnerable. You’re creating something sourced from your soul, your being, your lived experiences. When someone takes a knife to it, it feels like you’re being ripped apart along with it. Separating your self-worth from your work is a blessing few have achieved, and I’m still making my way there.
My goal is to pay it forward by inspiring someone, as Peter McKinnon and Yes Theory have inspired me. But that won’t happen in the safety of my journals. As my favorite author, Mark Manson, once said:
You cannot be a life-changing presence to some without becoming a complete and utter joke to others. Embarrassment is the price of admission.
So, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go make an ass out of myself.
