The Need to Matter

Why being seen matters more than we like to admit

I had an uncomfortable realisation recently.

I was in the gym, pushing through another heavy set, when it occurred to me that part of the reason I wanted to lift more weight was because I wanted people to be impressed. I didn’t like that thought, it really stung. In fact I’m surprised I’m admitting it to you now. After all these years of writing about authenticity, had I really learned so little? Was I still chasing approval?

For a while, I felt almost embarrassed by it. Then I remembered something.

Just because we become aware of an old instinct doesn’t mean we’ve failed to outgrow it. It simply means we’ve noticed it.

That’s really important. I think it’s one of the real goals of self-mastery. Not stopping thoughts, but noticing them – even the cringeworthy ones – without immediately believing them or acting on them.

As the boxing trainer Cus D’Amato said, “Heroes and cowards feel the same fear. They just respond differently.”

Perhaps the same is true of our need for approval. We all feel it. The difference lies in whether we let it quietly dictate our lives.

I suspect the need to matter is one of the oldest pieces of software we carry. For our ancestors, status wasn’t about ego. It was about survival. The skilled hunter was valued because he fed the tribe. The wise elder because she carried knowledge. The dependable member because others knew they could be relied upon.. To matter was to contribute and to contribute increased your chances of belonging. And belonging increased your chances of survival.

Thousands of years later, the instinct remains, only now it has found new ways to express itself. We count followers instead of allies, job titles instead of responsibilities. Likes instead of respect. Even those of us who claim not to care what others think can sometimes catch ourselves wondering whether we’ve done enough, achieved enough or left enough of a mark.

I know I do.

I’ve spent much of my life pursuing ambitious goals. Racing motorcycles on the sand and salt, writing books, standing on podiums, lifting weights that once seemed impossible. Looking back, I can see that some of those pursuits were driven by curiosity and challenge. Some, if I’m honest, were also driven by a desire to matter. The two are not always easy to separate.

The trick, I suspect, is not to stop wanting to matter. It is to stop measuring our worth by applause.

The interesting question isn’t whether we seek significance – I think almost everyone does. The more useful question is what kind of significance we’re seeking. There is a version that depends almost entirely on the opinions of other people. It constantly asks, Have they noticed me? Am I impressive enough? The problem is that this kind of significance never settles for long. There is always another mountain to climb, another comparison to make, another audience to win over.

It is exhausting.

Then there is another kind. The quiet satisfaction that comes from living in accordance with your values. From being useful. From keeping your word. From helping someone without expecting recognition. From creating something that feels true.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve noticed my own definition of success beginning to change. I still enjoy achieving difficult things and I probably always will. But I find myself caring less about whether those achievements impress other people and more about whether they enlarge my own experience of life. The distinction is subtle, but important. One asks, How do I appear? The other asks, Who am I becoming?

The need to matter never really disappears. Maybe it shouldn’t. After all, contributing to the lives of others is one of the deepest sources of meaning we have.

When I stop and ask myself why I write, I think this is the answer. Not a desire for applause, but a hope that something I’ve experienced might make someone else’s path a little easier.

The trick, I suspect, is not to stop wanting to matter. It is to stop measuring our worth by applause. Because applause fades and status changes. Records are broken. But the quiet knowledge that you have lived as honestly as you could, loved with all your heart and tried to leave people a little better than you found them…

That kind of significance doesn’t require an audience.

It simply requires a life well lived.

And perhaps that’s what we’ve been searching for all along.