There’s a concert in town. Tickets are impossible to get. And yet, the fact that a million other people can’t go makes my ticket feel a hundred times more precious.
It’s a strange, almost embarrassing little secret, isn’t it? That sometimes, the joy isn’t just in the thing itself—the music, the experience, the moment. It’s in the quiet, unspoken knowledge that a vast majority couldn’t get a seat. The pleasure of being part of the ‘in-crowd’ is a silent but potent drug.
We see this everywhere. In the reality shows we can’t stop watching. Why do we tune in? Is it to see who wins? Not really. I have a theory that a silent majority watches just to see who gets eliminated. We aren’t worried about who got selected; we’re waiting for the grand, dramatic failure. It gives us a weird, unexplainable kick. A tiny, mean little jolt of “I’m glad that wasn’t me.”
This feeling isn’t limited to TV. The other day, I saw an Instagram account for a guy who predicts the weather for his state. He’s scarily accurate, warning people about heavy rains and cyclones. He has a lot of followers, and you’d think they’d all be grateful.
But go to the comments section. That’s where you see the true, unfiltered human heart. A lot of people thank him, of course. But a surprising number are just waiting for him to be wrong. The moment his prediction fails, the comments light up with mockery. “Haha, told you so!” they snicker, as if they’ve won some kind of cosmic bet. Why? What does it give us to see a total stranger—a person in a completely different field—fail at something he’s trying to do for others?
This brings me to the gym. And I’ll say it: I wonder how many people would even go if they couldn’t take a photo or a video. Most of the people I see seem to be there for a reel, not for a rep. The exercise is a side-effect. The main purpose? The validation of showing you’re there. The triumph isn’t in the workout; it’s in the post.
We are so obsessed with showing the world what we’re doing that we forget the joy of just… doing it.
True growth, the kind that matters, doesn’t need a publicist. It doesn’t need an audience. It happens in the quiet moments, when no one is watching. When you go for a run at 5 AM and the only witness is the sunrise. When you finish a book not to post a review, but because the words changed something inside you.
The real purpose of learning isn’t to get a certificate to show off. It’s not about an external change that makes people look at you differently. It’s about an internal change. It’s about becoming a better version of yourself, so that when you look at yourself in the mirror every day, you look different and more brilliant.
The silent scorecard is the only one that truly matters.
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