Reflection
Last month, I hosted an event. I invited a lot of people—friends, colleagues, peers, supporters. When the night came, the room wasn’t very crowded.
I won’t pretend it didn’t affect me. It did.
In the quiet moments afterward, I found myself equating the lack of attendance with my worth. With my relevance. With my talent. I questioned whether I mattered as much as others in similar spaces, whether I was as important, as respected, or as gifted as my counterparts. That spiral is subtle but dangerous—because it disguises itself as “being realistic” when, in truth, it’s rooted in comparison.
I sat with those thoughts and feelings for a month.
And then something became very clear.
I cannot—and will not—measure my worth, my value, or my talent by numbers, algorithms, or attendance counts. Metrics don’t define purpose. Likes don’t measure impact. Headcounts don’t capture meaning.
Yes, as a businessman, numbers matter. They always will. They help sustain the work. They help expand the reach. But they were never the reason I started creating.
I don’t create art for validation.
I don’t create to chase applause.
I don’t create to compete.
I create because it’s who I am.
That night, regardless of the size of the crowd, my passion didn’t waver. My enthusiasm didn’t shrink. I showed up fully. I gave everything I had—because the art deserved that, and so did the moment.
And I’m deeply grateful for the people who were there.
The ones who drove hours.
The ones who rearranged their schedules.
The ones who chose presence over convenience.
They didn’t come for numbers. They came for connection. For energy. For truth. For us sharing a moment that will never exist again in exactly the same way.
That matters.
What I’ve learned is this: impact is not always loud. Sometimes it’s intimate. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it reaches fewer people—but reaches them deeply.
And that’s enough.
I’m still here. Still creating. Still believing.
Not because of how many people show up—but because I refuse to disappear when they don’t.
