There’s a great line from comedian John Mulaney’s latest stand-up special, Baby J:
“The past couple years, I’ve done a lot of work on myself. And I’ve realized that I’ll be fine as long as I get constant attention.”
Mulaney is being tongue-in-cheek, but as a former addict, he’s also being serious. And I think he’s put his finger on one of the defining problems in our society.
In You Are Not Your Own, professor and philosopher Alan Noble argues that most of us feel inadequate and defective to some degree or other. We feel like there’s a hole inside of us. And we try to fill this hole with attention.
We can see this phenomenon everywhere. We can see it on social media, where everyone’s competing for the acclaim of millions of strangers. We can see it in the online influencers who, as Freya India points out, turn their most intimate moments into livestreamed events in exchange for views and Likes.
I think we can see this offline too. How many of us have chased praise from our boss or coworkers or even parents, hoping that feeling seen and affirmed by another human being will fill the hole in our hearts? How many of us have pursued the corner office, thinking that once we achieve status in the firm that we’ll finally feel complete? How many of us have tried to do good, not simply out of a desire to help, but ostentatiously—out of a desire to be seen helping? How many of us have tricked ourselves into thinking that if we receive the attention and acclaim of our community—our families, our church groups, our peers—in just the right way, that we’ll finally feel satisfied?
I know I have. I spent my 20s feeling desperately alone and defective, and I tried to fix this feeling by acquiring status. I was status-obsessed as a writer. I think I drove my old agent nuts, because I was constantly pushing her to pitch my pieces to bigger and bigger outlets. I was convinced that if I could just receive enough attention—the praise of a prominent professor in my industry, or one million views on one of my articles, or a byline at the New York Times—that all of that attention would finally make me feel like I wasn’t so painfully and utterly broken.
I’ve even seen this trend—of trying to use our status and recognition to fill the hole inside of us—in quasi-spiritual groups. For years I belonged to a quasi-spiritual group, and with the encouragement of the leader of the group I would post daily check-ins about my career successes. The idea was that, if I could internalize my own competence, then my sense of shame would erode. i.e. “My mind thinks that I’m defective as a human being, but I can’t possibly be defective—[X FAMOUS AUTHOR] just said that they like my work.”
I don’t wish to criticize this particular group or leader, which is why both are going to remain anonymous, but I tell this story for two reasons.
First, I think this idea really is pervasive in our society. Noble suggests that the drive for status and attention is a huge part of the foundation of the modern West.
Second, this practice from the quasi-spiritual group didn’t actually work, any more than it did when I tried more or less the same thing in my 20s. I think the reason is that our accomplishments and our skills aren’t who we are. If I got a bad concussion tomorrow and I couldn’t write anymore, I would still be the same man I am today—because my ability to write is a skill, not an identity. But if our skills and our identity are separate, than reifying our skills can’t actually change our perception of our identity. If we perceive our identity as fundamentally defective, then merely reminding ourselves that we’re good at XYZ isn’t going to change that faulty perception.
But there’s something else that did help me to change my faulty perception of myself.
Starting around the middle of this year, I noticed that something was shifting inside of me. I was becoming quieter. I was posting less on X. In the old days, when someone famous followed me on X, I would shout it from the rooftops, but in the past couple of months, I’ve noticed a couple of famous people in my industry start to follow me and my reaction has been to shrug, wonder idly how that happened, smile for a moment, and then go about my day.
Lately I can watch someone get up on stage, with all of that glorious attention focused on them, and not feel jealous of them. That didn’t used to happen.
I think what changed was: I started to deepen my relationship with my Creator. I started to feel seen, and known, and loved, on a deeper and more intimate level than I ever had before.
And that started to fill the hole inside of me in a way that nothing else ever did.
It turns out that I don’t need to be seen, or known, or loved by millions of strangers. All I need is to be seen, and known, and loved, by one being: the one who created me, who knows everything about me and who loves me deeply and unconditionally.
And that’s enough.
Heal the West is 100% reader-supported. If you enjoyed this article, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription or becoming a founding member. I greatly appreciate your support.