#1 ·
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the concept of "the witness." It’s a strange thing, isn't it? The idea that our actions, our struggles, and our ultimate triumphs change their very nature depending on who is watching—or more specifically, who *isn't* watching.
We spend so much of our lives operating in a vacuum, or at least a vacuum we pretend exists. We practice, we work, we build habits, and we chase goals with the assumption that we are doing it for ourselves. There’s a certain purity in that, a sense of internal validation that feels sturdy and unshakeable. But we all know, deep down, that the moment a specific person enters the room—or the moment a specific person's absence is finally filled—the stakes undergo a massive, almost instantaneous shift.
I experienced this a few years ago when I finally finished a massive woodworking project I’d been tinkering with in my garage for months. For most of that time, I was just talking to myself, obsessing over the grain of the wood and the precision of the joints. It was a solitary, almost meditative process. But my grandfather, who had been largely absent from my life due to his own health struggles and general distance, suddenly showed a keen interest. He came out to the garage one afternoon, sat in a creaky lawn chair, and just watched me sand a tabletop. Suddenly, the sweat felt heavier. The mistakes felt more glaring. The satisfaction of finishing the piece wasn't just about the object itself anymore; it was about the silent communication happening between me and this man who had been a ghost in my life for a decade. The "why" of my labor had shifted from internal satisfaction to external recognition.
It makes me wonder about the psychology of motivation. Is there such a thing as a truly "pure" achievement? Can we ever say we did something solely for our own sake if there is even a lingering thought of how a loved one might perceive it?
On one hand, you could argue that seeking the approval or even just the presence of a parental figure or a mentor is the most primal, honest driver of human behavior. It’s baked into our DNA. We are social creatures; we exist in relation to others. To perform in front of someone who has been absent, or someone who represents a piece of our history we’ve been trying to reconcile, feels like a way of closing a loop. It’s like a ritual of closure. You aren't just performing a task; you are performing a version of yourself for the person who needs to see it.
On the other hand, there’s a certain pressure that comes with that kind of "witnessing" that can be totally paralyzing. I’ve seen people freeze up when the person they respect most finally shows up to watch them. The weight of all those years of absence or unspoken expectations can turn a moment of triumph into a moment of immense anxiety. You aren't just fighting the challenge in front of you; you're fighting the ghost of what that person thinks of you.
I’m curious to hear your thoughts on this. Do you think the presence of a significant person—especially someone who has been away or distant—fundamentally alters the quality of our work or our achievements? Or is the most meaningful stuff we do the stuff we do when absolutely no one is looking? Can a victory be truly "yours" if it's driven by the need to be seen by someone else?
We spend so much of our lives operating in a vacuum, or at least a vacuum we pretend exists. We practice, we work, we build habits, and we chase goals with the assumption that we are doing it for ourselves. There’s a certain purity in that, a sense of internal validation that feels sturdy and unshakeable. But we all know, deep down, that the moment a specific person enters the room—or the moment a specific person's absence is finally filled—the stakes undergo a massive, almost instantaneous shift.
I experienced this a few years ago when I finally finished a massive woodworking project I’d been tinkering with in my garage for months. For most of that time, I was just talking to myself, obsessing over the grain of the wood and the precision of the joints. It was a solitary, almost meditative process. But my grandfather, who had been largely absent from my life due to his own health struggles and general distance, suddenly showed a keen interest. He came out to the garage one afternoon, sat in a creaky lawn chair, and just watched me sand a tabletop. Suddenly, the sweat felt heavier. The mistakes felt more glaring. The satisfaction of finishing the piece wasn't just about the object itself anymore; it was about the silent communication happening between me and this man who had been a ghost in my life for a decade. The "why" of my labor had shifted from internal satisfaction to external recognition.
It makes me wonder about the psychology of motivation. Is there such a thing as a truly "pure" achievement? Can we ever say we did something solely for our own sake if there is even a lingering thought of how a loved one might perceive it?
On one hand, you could argue that seeking the approval or even just the presence of a parental figure or a mentor is the most primal, honest driver of human behavior. It’s baked into our DNA. We are social creatures; we exist in relation to others. To perform in front of someone who has been absent, or someone who represents a piece of our history we’ve been trying to reconcile, feels like a way of closing a loop. It’s like a ritual of closure. You aren't just performing a task; you are performing a version of yourself for the person who needs to see it.
On the other hand, there’s a certain pressure that comes with that kind of "witnessing" that can be totally paralyzing. I’ve seen people freeze up when the person they respect most finally shows up to watch them. The weight of all those years of absence or unspoken expectations can turn a moment of triumph into a moment of immense anxiety. You aren't just fighting the challenge in front of you; you're fighting the ghost of what that person thinks of you.
I’m curious to hear your thoughts on this. Do you think the presence of a significant person—especially someone who has been away or distant—fundamentally alters the quality of our work or our achievements? Or is the most meaningful stuff we do the stuff we do when absolutely no one is looking? Can a victory be truly "yours" if it's driven by the need to be seen by someone else?