Fame Won't Save You, Dummy!

we need to redefine success before we lose our minds

Most of the famous people I know are profoundly insecure, untrusting, and/or unhappy. There are exceptions, but they're few and far between.

Beyond the cautionary tales of Kurt Cobain and Marilyn Monroe, fame consistently proves to be a dangerous trap. Public meltdowns, self-destruction, and untimely deaths aren't anomalies—they're often inevitable. Robin Williams, Anthony Bourdain, Chris Cornell, Naomi Judd, Chester Bennington—all people who "had it all," yet still chose to opt out. The K-pop industry has been rocked by the suicides of global superstars, crushed under relentless scrutiny and impossible expectations. Last year, before Liam Payne fell to his death in an intoxicated stupor, he reportedly said: I used to be in a boy band. That's why I'm so fucked up.

You might think you're immune to celebrity culture, but you're not. If you live in the Western world, you're swimming in it. Celebrities dictate everything—from commerce to body image to politics. Corporations spend billions on celebrity endorsements and collaborations because we perceive products as more legitimate when famous names are attached. An entire industry of body-altering procedures can be traced directly to the Kardashians. People literally go under the knife to look like them. Oh yeah, and Donald Trump was elected president, and he and Elon Musk are now running the United States (into the ground).

For many, fame is a mirror that only reflects and magnifies their deepest insecurities rather than their creative worth. I wonder: are happy, healthy, secure people ever the ones who crave fame? Because it seems like the pursuit of it is mainly reserved for those who are deeply wounded. And fame doesn't heal shit—it just adds insult to injury.

I've tried plenty of dumb, futile ways to remedy my own pain, but I've surprisingly never been tempted or impressed by celebrity. I’ve never been bitten by the fame bug, and I’m grateful for that. Maybe it's because of my hellish early years in Hollywood. It could be because I've seen behind the curtain too many times. Still, despite my disinterest in notoriety, I spent years of my career feeling pressured to aim for it. Why? Because we're all conditioned to believe that fame is the ultimate marker of success.

But fame is not success. Popularity is fleeting. It doesn't give you purpose or help you grow. And it certainly doesn't fill the emptiness inside you. Remember: glitter is beautiful from afar, but up close, it's an endless mess that’s impossible to clean up.

Amy Winehouse : Getty Images

Success—especially for artists—must be defined by something deeper than wealth, validation, or an illusion of importance.

Musicians know we can't base our worth on money. Being a full-time artist supported solely by art is an increasingly rare privilege. We're well aware that only a tiny fraction of us will ever attain financial stability from our work. But getting rich isn't our goal—artistic success is. The question is, what does that even mean in today's world? A world where our value is measured by visibility—a paradox, because visibility rarely correlates with substance and definitely doesn't ensure capital.

More and more, people want to characterize being successful as having the ability to do nothing. Many see an artist's side hustle as a sign of failure. Yet, all the musicians I know in my generation have supplemental income streams: selling vintage clothes, tattooing, waiting tables, etc. In many ways, these extra gigs aren't only financially necessary but emotionally beneficial. Diversification is healthy. Idle hands aren't attached to thriving people...

Working the least and getting the most reward sounds enviable, but it's not stimulating. Look at rockstars. When they tour, they do nothing for 22 hours a day. No joke. Their "work" is a two-hour show. The rest of the time? Mindless scrolling, video games, drug and sex addiction, alcoholism, etc. It's the dream lifestyle if you're a teenager. But is it fulfilling? Is it inspiring? I know firsthand it doesn't lead to happiness. I was married to someone who seemingly had it all: money, fame, hundreds of guitars, every toy and gadget a guy could want, and a home recording studio in a mansion. Yet, he was one of the most insecure, self-loathing people I've ever known (which says a lot). Fame doesn't equate to emotional success. If anything, it hinders it.

Most people will never experience celebrity status—and that's a fucking blessing. Artists shouldn't be ashamed or judged for having jobs or small followings. Tragedy isn't waiting tables so you can afford to create meaningful art. Tragedy is having all the fame and wealth in the world and still feeling empty and alone.

Goo Hara, Moonbin, Kim Sae Ron

To redefine artistic success, I must first discover what emotional success means to me. Realizing that the two are not the same has been a mindfuck. My emotional well-being has been tied to my artistic output for far too long. My identity as a human being has been too enmeshed with my identity as a musician. My worth as a woman has been determined by my worth as a creative. Obviously, this way of being cannot lead to stability or happiness.

I'd like to find fulfillment without external validation. I want to make art for the sheer joy of it, discover meaning beyond productivity, and take actions that make me proud of my life. That's why I've started exploring writing, higher education, and acts of service—trying​ to figure out who​ I​ am beyond Queen Kwong. Because the most meaningful success may not​ be found through​ my music. Which feels confusing and crazy​ tо consider... (exploding head emoji)

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c u next tuesday.

XX CARRÉ

ps: how has your definition of success changed over the years?

pps: as usual, comments, shares and likes make my world go ‘round <3