When I was in my 20s, I wanted to be famous.
I had an endless list of ideas for rocketing myself into the fame stratosphere, one of which involved a zorb. Have you ever seen one of those things? It’s basically a giant, inflatable hamster ball for humans, and a couple friends and I had an elaborate (read: ridiculous) plan for landing sponsorships and zorbing across the country. I can’t remember if there was a point behind it all, aside from being famous.
Now, what’s more ridiculous than this plan is the idea of me wanting to be famous.
I’m in my 40s, and thanks to so much therapy, I’m now aware that if I was trying to create the most nightmarish life possible, fame would be the number one ingredient.
I am so. damn. introverted.
I’m not particularly shy, but wow do I ever need my alone time and privacy. The thought of going places and being recognized sounds about as fun as eating a box of nails.
Not to mention all the doing of things in public—appearances, interviews, signings…Just one of those in a week would be enough to drain me. If that were the majority of my job? I can’t even.
So why on earth did I think I wanted to be famous?
I had so many inner parts desperately needing to be seen and loved, the majority of which were unconscious. Had someone asked me, “Do you want to be seen?” I would have sniffed imperiously—as if!
Now that I think of it, about ten years ago (yes, I still remember) a friend commented, “You really want to be seen, don’t you?” I recall spluttering some denial, followed by days of stewing. Shadow activation, anyone? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
To my young inner parts who were starving for mirroring and validation, being famous was like being seen on steroids. It was the archetypal, damn-near-divine version of that need being met.
Too bad had I achieved it I likely would have been miserable, not only because of the introversion mismatch, but because fame, from what I’ve heard, often delivers quite the opposite. A billion people know of you, but very few actually know you. The world sees you, but they’re seeing a projection of their own loves, loathings, and longings (and they’ll often get angry if you try to exist as an actual human, independent of those projections).
🌘 That’s the rub with shadow material left unattended—it frequently accomplishes precisely the opposite of what we consciously want.
Underneath my fame fantasy was the hope that if enough people saw me, I’d finally feel whole. And while I never did go zorbing across America, that same drive still shows up in sneakier ways today—as approval-seeking. Not as flashy as chasing fame, but the engine is the same: trying to earn worthiness by getting someone else’s stamp of approval.
For the past few months, my inner work has orbited around this very pattern—approval-seeking and the sneaky ways it wheedles into my life, and I have so much I want to share that I’ve decided to shift gears for a bit.
📆 For the next two months(ish), I’ll be pausing my usual New + Full Moon schedule to post essays a bit more frequently, each one exploring a different facet of approval-seeking.
Next time, we’ll zoom in on a silly (and surprisingly exhausting) habit I kept up for years. On the surface, it looked like discipline; underneath, it was pure approval-seeking.
That story led to an encounter with my Critical Inner Parent—the part of me that insists I’m only worthy if I’m working “hard enough.” We’ll meet that ever so charming character next time.
Until then, happy New Moon!
