Why I Don’t Create for Myself Alone
Because memory work is not a solitary act—it lives in the people who witness, remember, and carry it forward.
There’s a common refrain I’ve heard over and over again in creator circles, especially on TikTok: “You should be okay performing even if nobody’s watching. Do it for yourself. Don’t worry about the numbers.”
And while I understand where that comes from, I don’t agree with it. Because something essential gets left out of that conversation. Performance isn’t just about self-expression. It’s about being witnessed.
What makes a story powerful isn’t only the telling itself. It’s the act of someone else remembering it, carrying it forward, retelling it later. A memory held only in your mind is fragile. It can fade, distort, or vanish. But when a memory is witnessed, spoken aloud, or held in community, it gains longevity. It becomes part of a collective archive. This is why family stories matter. This is why oral traditions exist. This is why we write things down. Memory doesn’t exist in isolation. It requires someone else to hold the thread with you.
Performing in front of an audience is more than just entertainment. It’s archival work in real time. Every laugh, every gasp, every clap is evidence that your moment happened. It has been recorded, not just by technology, but in the bodies and memories of the people who were there. That’s why artists talk about the high of being on stage, or creators talk about the rush of going live when the room fills up. It isn’t only dopamine or adrenaline. It’s the knowledge that this moment will outlive you, because someone else was there to remember it too. An audience is a living archive. They hold the memory of your performance with you.
Yes, we can create for ourselves. And many of us do. But something extraordinary happens when someone else is there to receive it. Telling a joke in an empty room isn’t the same as hearing it land with an audience. Singing in the shower isn’t the same as hearing the crowd hum along. Even on TikTok, getting 15 likes might seem “small” in algorithm terms, but it’s still 15 people saying, “I saw you. I remember this. You are not invisible.” That’s why I find the “just perform for yourself” line dismissive. It treats performance as a monologue when really it’s a dialogue. It’s not weak or needy to want an audience. It’s human.
And the same is true for writing. On Substack, the advice is often, “Write for yourself. Don’t worry if you only have three or four subscribers.” Of course we should write for ourselves—we should capture the words before they fade, archive the memories that matter. But let’s not pretend it’s the same thing as writing into a void. Because three or four subscribers aren’t “just numbers.” They are people carrying your words, preserving them, and folding them into their own memory. They become part of the living archive of your work.
Writing, like performance, becomes archive when it is shared. That’s not vanity. That’s preservation. That’s the work. This has always been true. In the Black church, call-and-response isn’t optional, it’s essential. The memory of the sermon or the song doesn’t exist without the community echoing it back. In griot traditions across West Africa, stories are preserved not just by the teller but by the people who hear them and pass them down. Even TikTok duets and stitches are a form of digital memory, your words carried forward, remixed, archived in someone else’s creative act.
So yes, I can perform for myself. I can write for myself. I love creating. That’s why I do what I do. But I won’t pretend it’s the same as being witnessed. Because when someone else is there, when they remember, reflect, and carry it forward, something euphoric happens. The art lives longer. The memory stretches further. The archive grows stronger. And that matters.
Who holds your memories with you? Whose words or performances live inside your own archive?
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Whether you’re here to remember, create, or preserve—there’s a place for you.
Thanks for reading,
Aura