The Fantasy of Success vs. The Reality of Work

Hi there,

wanted to be the kind of girl who could pull out a guitar at a beach bonfire and have everyone go quiet. The kind of girl who strummed effortlessly, hair catching the firelight, while friends swayed along like we were in some indie music video.

At least, that was the fantasy in my head.

So I bought a guitar. Then I signed up for lessons. My teacher promised that if I stuck with it, I’d be playing full songs before I knew it.

But the fantasy didn’t match the reality.

I thought I’d be the cool girl at the bonfire. Instead, I was the reason people packed up early.

In reality, the process of playing guitar meant bloody fingertips, stiff wrists, and fumbling through chord changes.

It was hours of plinking out half-broken melodies that made me sound more like a raccoon clawing at a tin roof instead of the casual coolness of someone who can pull out a guitar and nail the opening riff of “Stairway to Heaven.”

And the more I practiced, the clearer it became: I didn’t love playing guitar. I loved the idea of being someone who plays guitar.

The Allure of the Identity

The truth was I didn’t want sore fingers and practice sessions that felt like manual labor. I wanted the aesthetic of bonfire sing-alongs, beach days, impromptu moments where I’d pull out a guitar and suddenly become magnetic.

I wanted to skip over the part where I sounded more like Spotify’s “dying appliances” playlist and get to the glory of the outcome.

Psychologists call this self-discrepancy theory: the painful gap between who we actually are and the ideal of who we think we should be. We build these fantasy selves because they promise status, belonging, admiration.

Writers love the idea of being “a writer,” but not the hours of drafts that never see the light of day. Fitness junkies love the six-pack, but not the endless, joyless repetitions that build it.

We love being seen as, not doing.

And it’s the doing that tells the truth.

Sitting in the Grind

For a while, I tried to force it. I told myself that suffering through the scales and chords was just the price you pay. I convinced myself that once I could play a few songs, it would all feel worth it.

But it didn’t.

Each time I sat down to practice, I felt a mix of dread and resentment. My teacher saw “progress,” but all I saw was how much further I was from the effortless beach-bonfire vibe I had imagined.

It’s a special kind of hell to realize that the thing you thought would light you up is, in fact, draining you. You start bargaining: maybe if I just push harder, it’ll click. Maybe I’ll become the person I want to be if I keep faking it.

But deep down, I knew. The guitar wasn’t mine. Not in the way I hoped.

The Courage to Let Go

Letting go of a fantasy identity is brutal because it feels like failure. It feels like you wasted money, time, and ego on a dream that never belonged to you.

But forcing yourself to stick with something you secretly hate just because you like how it looks on the outside is even worse. That’s how people get stuck in careers they dread, relationships that suffocate them, or hobbies and expectations that drain them.

The real courage isn’t in pushing through. It’s in admitting you don’t love it.

The Test

Here’s the question that finally freed me:

If the answer is no, you’re in love with the fantasy, not the reality.

That’s what I had to face with guitar. I didn’t love the practice, the sound, the solitude of learning. I loved the performance of it and end result, but not the process to get there.

So I quit.

Because while the fantasy me was cool. The real me was annoying and sounded like dial-up internet. Walking away from it was the nicest thing I ever did for other people.

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Final Thought

When I finally gave my guitar away, I felt a strange mix of relief and sadness. Relief that I didn’t have to keep grinding at something I didn’t enjoy. Sadness at letting go of a fantasy version of myself.

But underneath both was freedom.

Because once you let go of who you think you should be, you clear space for who you actually are.

For me, it wasn’t strumming under the stars. It was writing. Creating with words lit me up in a way guitar never did because I loved the process itself, not just the image.

And that’s the secret: fulfillment doesn’t come from curating identities. It comes from falling in love with the doing, not the being-seen-doing.

So ask yourself: what’s your guitar? What’s the thing you’re clinging to because of how it looks, not how it feels?

And then ask the harder question: what would you do even if nobody was watching?

That’s where freedom begins.

See you next week,

Shakila

P.S. Forward this to a friend. Worst case, they quit an identity that doesn’t fit. Best case, they quit texting you about it.

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P.P.S. Here’s the results of last week’s poll.