I recently saw a video of musician Pharell Williams visiting a music production class at NYU to critique student songs in 2016. Most students were understandably nervous—after all, Pharrell isn’t just a hitmaker; he’s one of the most respected creative minds in the world.
One student, a young artist named Maggie Rogers, played her song, “Alaska.”
Pharrell listened closely.
When the track ended, he paused, then said:
“Wow. Wow. I have zero, zero, zero notes for that.”
“And I’ll tell you why,” Pharrell continued. “Because you’re doing your own thing. It’s singular.”
That moment hit me harder than I expected.
Because if I’m being honest, I’ve spent too much time trying not to be singular.
If you’ve been following me for more than a month or two, you might’ve noticed I’ve stopped posting short-form content. I started creating on YouTube with a selfish but sincere motive—to improve personally. But it only takes a few “How to win on YouTube” videos and a glimpse into youtube analytics for the metrics to hijack your brain.
You start to obsess: How do I sound? How do I look? Will this line hold them for 3 seconds? Should I add background music, flashy cuts, fake hooks? Slowly, the craft turns into choreography. Every video became a performance—not for clarity, but for comparison. Not “Is this meaningful?” but “Is this as good as what others are doing?”
And here’s the trap: comparison often looks like research.
You watch others to “learn,” but in the process, you lose the sound of your own voice.
I worked with skilled editors who turned slow ideas into snappy, clickable content. But something felt off. It all looked perfect—engaging, tight, algorithm-friendly. Yet after each shoot, I felt more disconnected from the reason I started.
Is this what I want to show the world? Am I building a version of myself that I’ll live with for the rest of my life?
The internet loves what’s optimized. But the best work I’ve ever resonated with wasn’t trying to hack attention—it was just trying to tell the truth.
So now, I’m leaning away from polished perfection and toward meaningful mess.
Speaking slower, thinking deeper—and slowly letting go of the comparison trap.
Pharrell reminded me that the most powerful work doesn’t look like anything else. And maybe that’s the point.
If you’re creating something—writing, building, teaching, or dreaming—don’t wait to be “as good as” someone else. Be as true as you can be. Because the world doesn’t need another refined copy. It needs your singular one-off.
