You have a drawer full of half-finished things that no one will ever see, and you’re waiting for permission to put them away. But what if the silence isn’t empty? What if it’s exactly where you need to be?

I want you to think about that thing. Not the big career move or the public milestone. I mean the small, quiet project you’ve been carrying in your chest for months. Maybe it’s a sketchbook filled with charcoal smudges. Maybe it’s a playlist of songs you wrote at 2 AM when the house was finally still. Maybe it’s a garden bed you’re tending behind a fence so tall no neighbor can see it. It’s something you made purely because it felt like breathing, not because it needed an audience.

Here is the truth that keeps most of us up at night: we are terrified of making things that don’t perform. We live in a world that measures value by views, by likes, by shares, by how many people nod their heads in approval. And slowly, insidiously, we’ve started to believe that if no one sees it, it doesn’t count. If no one claps, did you even do it? That voice in your head is loud. It tells you that your creativity is only valid if it’s visible. It tells you that private joy is just hiding. It tells you that you should be posting that painting, sharing that poem, launching that business plan.

But I’m here to tell you that this voice is lying to you. It’s not just lying; it’s starving you. Because when we tie our creative worth to external validation, we hand over the keys to our happiness to strangers. We become performers in our own lives, constantly checking the rearview mirror to see if anyone is watching. And the moment the applause stops—or worse, the moment it never comes—we feel like failures. We feel like frauds. We start to hate the very thing that used to make us feel alive.

Let’s talk about why we do this. Why do we feel the need to broadcast every little victory? It’s not just vanity. It’s deeper than that. It’s a survival mechanism. For years, we’ve been taught that visibility equals safety. That if we’re seen, we’re valued. If we’re valued, we’re safe. So we curate. We edit. We polish until the raw, messy edges of our creation are gone, replaced by something sleek and marketable. We strip away the parts that feel too vulnerable, too weird, too personal. We sand down the soul of the work so it fits neatly into a feed.

And in doing so, we lose the magic. The magic wasn’t in the final product. The magic was in the struggle. The magic was in the hour you spent trying to get the color right on that canvas, not because you wanted to show it, but because the act of mixing those pigments made you feel present. The magic was in the way your hands moved across the keyboard, finding words you didn’t know you knew. When you remove the audience, you also remove the pressure to be perfect. And without that pressure, you’re free to be human. You’re free to make mistakes. You’re free to create something ugly, strange, or incomplete, and still call it yours.

Think about the last time you did something just for fun. Really just for fun. Did you check your phone after? Did you worry about how it looked? Or were you just lost in the flow, in that beautiful, timeless state where the world outside ceases to exist? That state is rare. It is precious. And it is available to you only when you decide that the act itself is the reward. Not the result. The act.

So, how do we reclaim that? How do we give ourselves permission to create in the dark? It starts with a shift in intention. Before you pick up the brush, before you open the laptop, before you step into the studio, ask yourself: Who am I making this for? If the answer is ‘for me,’ then hold onto that. Hold onto it tightly. Let it be enough. Let it be the whole point.

This isn’t about giving up on sharing your work forever. Sharing can be joyful too. But it must be a choice, not a compulsion. It must come from a place of abundance, not scarcity. When you create from a place of private joy, you fill your own cup first. You nourish your spirit. And when you finally do decide to share—whether it’s next week or next year—it won’t be desperate. It won’t be needy. It will be generous. You’ll be offering a piece of your heart because you have so much to give, not because you’re looking for someone to fill the void.

I remember a friend of mine, let’s call her Elena. She started baking sourdough during the lockdown. At first, she posted pictures online. She got likes. She got comments. But soon, the pressure set in. Every loaf had to be perfect. Every crust had to be golden. She stopped enjoying the process. She started dreading Sundays. Then, one day, she deleted the account. She stopped posting. She went back to baking for herself. She bought expensive butter. She took her time with the folds. She ate the burnt ones. She laughed at the flat ones. And suddenly, the bread tasted better. Not just to her, but to everyone who tried it. Her friends noticed. They said her baking had changed. It had more soul. Why? Because she had stopped performing and started playing again. She had reclaimed the joy.

There is a profound courage in being insignificant. In creating something that matters only to you. It takes bravery to look at a blank page and say, ‘This is for me.’ It takes resilience to paint a picture that will hang in your hallway for ten years, gathering dust, never hanging in a gallery. It takes strength to write a letter you’ll never send. Because in a culture that screams for your attention, choosing to turn inward is a radical act. It’s a rebellion. It’s a declaration that your inner life is valuable, even if it’s invisible to the world.

This courage doesn’t mean you’ll never share. It means you won’t be controlled by the fear of not being seen. It means you can create freely, boldly, messily. You can take risks. You can explore new mediums. You can fail spectacularly. And none of that failure defines you. Only your willingness to keep going defines you. And you’ll keep going because it feels good. Because it’s yours.

Consider the impact of this on your mental health. When you detach your self-worth from external metrics, you become unshakeable. Rejection becomes data, not destiny. Criticism becomes feedback, not judgment. You become immune to the fluctuating winds of opinion. You find a steady ground beneath your feet. And from that ground, you can build something lasting. Something real. Something that sustains you through the hard days, the lonely nights, the times when the world feels heavy. Your private creative practice becomes your sanctuary. Your refuge. Your home.

So here is my gentle challenge to you this week. Pick one thing. Just one. It could be writing a single paragraph. It could be drawing a stick figure. It could be arranging flowers in a vase that sits on a shelf you glance at every morning. Make it small. Make it simple. And most importantly, make it secret. Do not post it. Do not tell anyone. Do not talk about it unless they ask, and even then, maybe keep some part hidden. Keep the core of it for yourself.

Notice how it feels. Notice the lightness in your chest. Notice the absence of anxiety. Notice the pure, unadulterated pleasure of making something exist simply because you willed it to. This is the power of private joy. It is renewable. It is infinite. It is yours.

And if you slip up—if you post it, if you seek validation, if you doubt yourself—that’s okay. Forgive yourself. Come back to the desk. Come back to the clay. Come back to the song. Try again. The door is always open. The joy is always waiting. You don’t need permission. You don’t need an audience. You just need to begin. And then begin again. Again. And again. Until the silence feels like music. Until the darkness feels like home. Until you remember who you are when no one is watching. Because that person—the real you—is the most interesting person in the room. And she deserves to create freely.

Thank you for letting me into your quiet moments. I’ll be right here, in the comeback room, whenever you need to return. Until then, create wildly, create privately, create for love. You’ve got this. Bye for now.