As I endeavour to build my social media presence for both my freelance coaching and my songwriting, it’s hard not to become demotivated when likes, follows, reposts, and comments are few and far between. It often feels like I am in a constant back and forth with an algorithm that would prefer my content to be more on trend, more sensational, formatted differently, and posted more regularly. And it’s hard not to submit and do what is proven to work and just play the social media game - I’m definitely not above this and have done it many times before. It would certainly tame the shame, embarrassment and cringe I feel when I spend a couple of hours putting together an Instagram reel and seemingly only my sister and a few friends see it.
Like many of us, I don’t want to be seen wanting something, trying for it, and failing. It’s like someone running for a bus, missing it, then pretending they weren’t really running for the bus in the first place, to protect themselves from the judgement of the seated onlookers who made the bus on time.
The other week, I met up with someone I hadn’t seen in a few years. They said that during our time apart, they really enjoyed watching the YouTube videos my sister and I used to make. It really surprised me, because at the time I told myself no one cared, no one was interested, no one was watching. That was one of the reasons we stopped making those videos.
It made me think about other times in my life when I stopped doing something because it felt embarrassing to be seen attempting something that wasn’t signalling success in a way that was visible or recognised, like a viral video or a surge in followers. And those times when I pushed through those doubts and did it anyway.
Proud2Be (the queer org I started and ran with my sister for nearly 15 years) was in many ways a manifestation of turning something traumatic (bullying, rejection, shame) into something else (support, community, hope) for the benefit of others, so they didn’t have to experience the former and had access to the latter. In hindsight, I don’t think I was entirely motivated by altruistic reasons - I needed my trauma to be useful, to do something good, to have meaning, for my own healing. But turning pain into meaning can become addictive, and it certainly did for me. It was a key part of my identity for so long. It’s what I felt I had to offer the world. And if I tried and failed at that, at least I was failing at something honourable, something in service of others. It meant people only really saw a highly curated version of me, not the one who writes songs because it brings me joy, regulates me, helps me understand my feelings, makes me feel good. If I fail at that, maybe I deserve it, for being so selfish, frivolous, self-indulgent.
The Max who triumphs over adversity, turns suffering into something else in service of others, is a much more inspiring version of the Max who is regulated, at peace, and healing from their past. It therefore makes sense that historically I chose the harder route because the gentler, easier one felt like a cop out, or a sign of weakness.
Like when I started on ADHD meds, I felt like if I’m not suffering the most I can with my ADHD and surviving it without meds, my value as a human decreases. I can’t say, ‘I have achieved all this, despite being unmedicated.’ The logical part of my brain knows that when I was diagnosed with an underactive thyroid, I didn’t even consider not taking the meds. But raw-dogging ADHD felt like a moralistic judgement call, a referendum on my strength and tenacity, a metric where all my future achievements would be measured.
There’s a fear underneath all this: that without suffering to turn into meaning, I’ll lose the drive itself. That artists only make good art when they’re breaking up or falling apart. Who will I become if I am regulated, feel contentment, am no longer driven by being the most inspiring person in the room, on Instagram, on LinkedIn?
Will I still run for the bus? And if I miss it, will I pretend that I didn’t want it in the first place? How might it feel to be at the bus stop before the bus arrives, timetable in hand, noise-cancelling headphones at the ready? What if my value isn’t decided by strangers on the bus? Maybe my sense of validation can live in multiple places both on and off the bus. So at those times when I do miss the bus (meds or no meds, I still have ADHD), it’s not the end of trying, the end of wanting, the end of the world.
It’s just one bus. It doesn’t mean I’ll miss them all. And maybe that’s what success is for me: showing up, sharing what is true for me, and honouring the part of myself that wants something whilst also being scared of what it will look like if I don’t quite make it.