Why I Don't Want to Be Famous (And What I Want Instead)

What if the thing everyone seems to want is actually a trap?

I've been thinking about this since I watched an interview with a musician — someone whose songs I'd loved for years. He was promoting his latest album, doing the circuit: morning shows, podcasts, late-night appearances. The interviewer asked him something about success, and for a moment his face did something his words didn't match.

He said he was grateful. His eyes said something else entirely.

I recognized that look. I'd seen it in spiritual teachers who'd built followings. In authors who'd hit bestseller lists. In entrepreneurs who'd "made it" by every measurable standard. A particular kind of exhaustion that comes not from working hard, but from performing yourself for an audience that never stops watching.

And I thought: I don't want that. I've never wanted that.

Which is strange, because by most metrics, wanting that is the point.

The Invisible Script

Here's what we're told success looks like:

Build an audience. Grow your following. Get recognized. Become a name. Make it so that when you walk into a room — or an airport, or a bookstore, or a coffee shop — people know who you are.

This script is so pervasive that questioning it feels almost rebellious. Of course you want to be known. Of course you want recognition. Of course the goal is to become someone people have heard of.

But here's a question I started asking myself a few years ago, and I haven't been able to stop:

Known for what, exactly? And by whom? And at what cost?

Because fame isn't free. It comes with a price tag that's usually written in very small print.

The price is your ability to be ordinary. To have a bad day in public. To buy groceries without being approached. To exist as a person rather than as a persona.

I watched that musician in his interview, and I realized: he can never just be a guy who likes music anymore. He's The Musician. Every interaction filtered through that identity. Every relationship shadowed by the question of what people want from him versus who he actually is.

That's not success. That's a gilded cage. And the bars are made of other people's expectations.

What Validation Actually Costs

Let me be honest about something: I understand the appeal.

For most of my life, I wanted external validation as much as anyone. Maybe more. I wanted to be seen, recognized, told I was doing something meaningful. I wanted the confirmation that comes from other people noticing your work.

In my twenties, I found that validation in a spiritual organization. The teacher's approval. The community's respect. The sense that I was part of something important, and that the something important had noticed me back.

It felt wonderful. For a while.

The problem with external validation is that it's like drinking salt water. The more you get, the thirstier you become. One person's approval isn't enough — you need ten. Ten isn't enough — you need a hundred. A hundred isn't enough — you need a platform, an audience, a following.

And somewhere along that trajectory, you stop doing the work because it matters and start doing it because it gets noticed.

I've watched this happen to people I respect. Authors who started writing to share something true and ended up writing to maintain engagement. Teachers who started teaching to help and ended up teaching to fill seats. The work becomes secondary to the performance of the work.

That's what happens when your sense of worth is located outside yourself. You become a hostage to attention.

The Psychology of Enough

Researchers have a name for what happens when you achieve the thing you thought would make you happy: the hedonic treadmill.¹

The basic finding is this: we adapt to our circumstances far more quickly than we expect. Get a raise, and within months it feels normal. Buy the car, and within weeks it's just transportation. Achieve the goal, and the satisfaction fades faster than the Instagram post announcing it.

This applies to fame and recognition too. Studies on lottery winners found that after an initial spike, their happiness returned to baseline.² The external thing didn't create lasting internal change.

But here's what's interesting: the research also shows that some things don't fade the same way. Psychologists Edward Deci and Richard Ryan developed Self-Determination Theory, which identifies three core needs that actually sustain wellbeing: autonomy (feeling in control of your choices), competence (feeling effective at what you do), and relatedness (feeling connected to others).³

Notice what's missing from that list: being famous. Being recognized. Being known by strangers.

Those aren't core needs. They're substitutes for core needs — usually substitutes for relatedness. We want to be known because we want to feel connected. But being known by millions isn't the same as being known by one person who actually sees you.

"Fame is a simulacrum of connection. It looks like the thing, but it isn't the thing."

What I Actually Want

So if not fame, then what?

I've spent a lot of time thinking about this. Not in an abstract, philosophical way — in a practical, "what would actually make this life feel meaningful" way.

Here's what I've landed on:

I want the work to reach people who need it. Not everyone. Not the maximum possible audience. The people for whom these particular words, at this particular time, might actually help. If that's a thousand people or a hundred thousand, either is fine. What matters is that the connection is real, not performative.

I want to be compensated fairly for value created. Not rich. Not famous-person-money. Just enough that this work is sustainable. That I'm not doing it as a side project squeezed between things that pay the bills. That the economics work without requiring me to become a brand.

I want to remain anonymous in my actual life. I want to buy groceries without being recognized. Have a bad day without it becoming content. Walk through an airport like everyone else. Meet people who don't know anything about what I do and have to decide whether to like me based on who I am, not what I've built.

I want impact without spotlight. The words can travel. I don't need to.

This might sound like a contradiction — wanting influence without wanting attention. But I don't think it is. Writers have been doing this forever. The work circulates; the person doesn't have to.

Some of my favorite authors, I couldn't pick out of a lineup. I've read their words a dozen times and have no idea what they look like. That seems healthy to me. The work and the person remain separate. The work can do its job without the person becoming a celebrity.

But choosing this path raises a question I didn't expect — one that has less to do with audiences and more to do with who we become when we're always visible.

The Performing Self

Here's something I learned during my years in organized spirituality, though it took me a long time to articulate:

The self you perform eventually starts to feel like the only self you have.

When you're in a system that rewards certain behaviors — spiritual attainment, dedication, the right kind of presence — you start performing those behaviors. At first consciously. Then unconsciously. Then you can't remember what you were like before you started performing.

Fame does the same thing, just on a larger scale.

When you're known for something, you start becoming that thing. The gap between who you are and who people think you are becomes uncomfortable, so you close it — not by showing them who you really are, but by becoming who they think you are.

I've seen this in teachers who became caricatures of themselves. Authors who kept writing the same book because that's what their audience expected. Speakers who couldn't have a normal conversation because they'd forgotten how to talk without an audience.

That's not influence. That's imprisonment.

And the worst part is, it's self-imposed. Nobody forces you to keep performing. You just forget how to stop.

This is why anonymity isn't just a preference for me. It's a protection. A way of ensuring that the person who writes these words and the person who lives my life remain connected — that one doesn't consume the other.

The Question Under the Question

A few years ago, during a conversation with my parents, I realized something about this whole topic that I hadn't seen before.

They worry about me. They want me to be successful — by which they mean financially secure, professionally recognized, hitting the markers that indicate a life well-lived in their framework. There's nothing wrong with their concern. They're parents. It's what parents do.

But their definition of success and mine have diverged. Probably a long time ago, if I'm honest.

They see recognition as safety. Being known means being valued. Having a name means having security.

I see it differently now. I see recognition as a kind of vulnerability. The more known you are, the more exposed. The more successful by external metrics, the more you have to maintain.

This isn't the article to fully explore that tension — the gap between what our parents want for us and what we want for ourselves, and how to navigate that with love intact. Maybe another time.

But I mention it because I think many of us carry around someone else's definition of success without realizing it. Our parents', our culture's, our industry's.

And at some point, you have to ask: Whose life am I actually trying to build?

Permission to Want Something Different

Here's what I want you to take from this, if anything:

You're allowed to want something other than what everyone seems to want.

You're allowed to not want the biggest audience. The most followers. The blue checkmark. The speaking circuit. The recognition in airports.

You're allowed to want your work to matter without wanting to become a public figure.

You're allowed to define success in terms that don't require sacrificing your privacy, your anonymity, your ability to be ordinary.

The script says fame is the goal. The script is wrong — or at least, it's incomplete. Fame is a goal. For some people, in some circumstances, it might even be the right goal.

But it's not the only goal. And for some of us, it's precisely the wrong one.

The question isn't "how do I become known?"

The question is: what do I actually want my life to feel like?

Answer that honestly, and the strategy follows. Even if the strategy looks nothing like what everyone else is doing.

For You

If you've ever felt guilty for not wanting what you're supposed to want — for not chasing the spotlight, not building the personal brand, not trying to maximize your reach — I want you to know:

You're not broken. You're not lacking ambition. You might just have a clearer sense than most people of what actually matters to you.

Impact and fame are not the same thing. You can have one without the other. The work can travel while you stay home.

And staying home — staying ordinary, staying anonymous, staying free to be a person rather than a persona — that's not settling for less.

It might be choosing more.

More privacy. More authenticity. More of a life that belongs to you rather than to your audience.

The musician in that interview, with the eyes that didn't match his words — I think he'd trade places with someone anonymous if he could.

I don't want to be in a position where I'd need to.

~ Soren Ross

Notes & References

¹ Brickman, P. & Campbell, D.T. (1971). "Hedonic relativism and planning the good society." In M.H. Appley (Ed.), Adaptation-level theory: A symposium (pp. 287-302). Academic Press. This foundational paper introduced the concept of the "hedonic treadmill."

² Brickman, P., Coates, D., & Janoff-Bulman, R. (1978). "Lottery winners and accident victims: Is happiness relative?" Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 36(8), 917-927.

³ Deci, E.L. & Ryan, R.M. (2000). "The 'what' and 'why' of goal pursuits: Human needs and the self-determination of behavior." Psychological Inquiry, 11(4), 227-268.