“Strive not to be a success, but rather to be of value.” ~Albert Einstein, adapted
I often feel like I was born into the wrong story.
I grew up in a time when success meant something quieter. My father was a public school music teacher. We didn’t have much, but there was a dignity in how he carried himself. He believed in doing good work—not for recognition or wealth, but because it mattered.
That belief shaped me. I became a teacher, filmmaker, and musician. And for decades, I’ve followed a similar path: one rooted in meaning, not money.
But somewhere along the way, the story changed.
All around me—especially in places like Los Angeles, where I’ve lived and worked—I see people running. Hustling. Branding. Monetizing. It’s not enough to be good anymore. You have to be seen. Promoted. Scaled. Life itself has become something to market.
And in that shift, I’ve felt something sacred go missing.
The False Promise
I’m not against success. I want to be able to pay my bills, support my family, and feel valued. But the version of success we’re fed—fame, visibility, endless productivity—is a lie. It promises meaning but often delivers emptiness.
We’ve replaced presence with performance. Care with clicks. Integrity with optimization. And the result? A society where exhaustion is normal and enough is never enough.
Psychologists call it extrinsic motivation—doing something for a reward, like money or applause. It’s not inherently bad. But when it dominates our lives, we lose touch with intrinsic motivation: the joy of doing something just because it matters to us.
When everything becomes a transaction, even joy starts to feel like a product.
The Scarcity Game
Sometimes I feel like we’re all scrambling for crumbs. Competing for attention, clients, gigs, or algorithms. Everyone trying to survive, to be seen, to matter.
It’s primal—like a twisted version of the hunter-gatherer instinct. But where ancient humans balanced competition with community, we’ve kept the fight and lost the tribe.
Now, even collaboration often feels strategic—a means to climb, not to connect. “Networking” replaces friendship. “Partnerships” become performance. We’re told to “collaborate” so we can get ahead—not because it nourishes our souls.
That scarcity mindset doesn’t just shape how we work. It distorts how we see ourselves. If someone else is thriving, we feel like we’re falling behind. If we’re not being noticed, we start to doubt our worth.
This isn’t just economics. It’s spiritual erosion.
Capitalism and What It Forgot
I’ve been thinking about capitalism—not as a political slogan, but as a cultural story. Adam Smith imagined markets built on freedom and mutual benefit. But today’s version often rewards extraction over contribution, performance over presence, and individual gain over shared good.
Even education and healthcare—things meant to uplift—are judged by efficiency, growth, and return on investment. I’ve seen schools cut arts programs in the name of data. I’ve watched care become content.
And I’ve felt it in myself—this pressure to prove my value with numbers, even when the most meaningful things I do can’t be measured.
Another Way of Living
I’ve spent time filming in remote indigenous communities in the southern Philippines, where life moves at a different pace. There, people didn’t ask how to monetize their purpose. They lived it. Storytelling was teaching. Planting was prayer. Taking care of elders wasn’t a chore—it was an honor.
Nobody was branding themselves.
But even in these places, that way of life is vanishing. Global markets, smartphones, and social media have arrived. The younger generation is pulled toward modern success. And who can blame them? Visibility promises power. But what’s quietly lost is the rootedness of belonging.
And it’s not just them. It’s all of us.
Do We Have to Disappear?
Sometimes people say, “If you don’t like the rat race, go live in a monastery.”
But I don’t want to disappear. I love music, conversation, cities, teaching. I want to live in the world—not retreat from it.
So the real question becomes: Can we live meaningfully within this world, without being consumed by it?
I believe we can. In fact, I think we must.
There are people everywhere doing quiet, vital work: teachers who never go viral, gardeners who share food, coders who write open-source tools, volunteers who show up without posting about it. They aren’t trending—but they are tending to something real.
Choosing What’s Real
I don’t have a formula. I still worry about money. I still wonder if what I do matters. But I keep coming back to this:
I’d rather make something honest that reaches ten people than fake something that reaches ten thousand.
I’d rather be present than polished. I’d rather care than compete.
If you feel this too—this ache, this fatigue, this quiet grief that something essential is being lost—you’re not alone.
And you’re not broken. You may be one of the ones who remembers.
Remembers what it feels like to listen deeply. To give without scoring points. To live from the inside out, not the outside in.
That remembering isn’t weakness. It’s your compass. And even in a monetized world, it still points you home.
The Truth Beneath the Lie
Here’s what I’ve learned: Success, as we’re taught to define it, is a moving target. You can chase it for decades and still feel empty.
But meaning—real, soul-deep meaning—is something we can return to at any moment. It’s in how we love. How we show up. How we make others feel. It’s in the work we do when no one is watching.
We may not be able to change the whole system. But we can tell a truer story.
One where value isn’t based on performance. One where success isn’t a finish line. One where we belong—not because we’re impressive, but because we’re human.
That story is still possible. And it’s worth telling.
