The Shelf That Doesn’t Matter

I’ve got a few awards. They sit on a shelf. Most are collecting dust, and at least one is propping up a stack of mail I haven’t opened yet.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m ungrateful. I appreciate the gestures. It’s nice to be noticed, and sure, it feels good in the moment.

But here’s the truth no one likes to say out loud: awards are a terrible reason to do anything.

They don’t make the work better. They don’t make you more curious. They definitely don’t make you braver. And they’re no substitute for waking up and still giving a damn when nobody’s clapping.

Recognition Is a Mirror—Not a Compass

Awards reflect something someone else sees in you. But they don’t tell you where to go next.

If you start chasing recognition instead of doing the work that actually excites or challenges you, you’re walking in circles or worse, walking away from your own voice.

I’ve seen people lose their creative edge the moment they get recognized. The hunger got replaced with anxiety. Instead of asking “What do I want to make?” they started asking, “What do they want from me now?”

That’s the fast track to burnout and beige art.

The Work Is the Reward

This probably sounds romantic, but I believe it: if you’re not in love with the process, you’re in the wrong business.

For me, the reward has always been the work itself.

The joy of sitting in a room full of misfits, arguing over ideas that no one else cares about yet.
The midnight phone calls where someone has a crazy thought that just might work.
The chaos of launching something that might fail, but doing it anyway because the idea won’t let you sleep.

Those moments don’t come with trophies. But they’re the reason I’m still here.

Impact Doesn’t Hang on the Wall

You want to know what really matters?

The intern who tells you years later that something you said changed their life.
The tiny, overlooked project that ended up inspiring someone else to start their own.
The late-night call where someone says, “Thank you for backing me when no one else would.”

That’s impact. It doesn’t always come with applause or press releases.

It comes quietly, often privately, and usually long after the fact.
But it sticks. It lives in people. Not in acrylic plaques.

You Can’t Eat Prestige

Here’s something else I’ve learned: prestige doesn’t pay the bills.

Awards look good in a press release, sure. But they don’t help you through a rough patch. They don’t show up when you’re staring at a blank page or trying to keep a team motivated in the middle of a flop.

Purpose does that. People do that. Grit does that.

The best teams I’ve worked with weren’t chasing validation, they were chasing truth, innovation, heart. They were in it for something. And that something kept them going when the shiny stuff wore off.

Laughing at the Hype

One of my favorite pastimes is reading the press we got during the early SXSW years.

Some of it was glowing. Some of it was brutal. None of it captured what was really going on behind the scenes. The stress, the scrambling, the failures, the moments of magic that no camera ever caught.

Which is why I don’t put much stock in public praise.

If you believe the hype too much, you start performing instead of creating.
If you take the criticism too personally, you stop taking risks.

Either way, you lose touch with the thing that mattered to you in the first place.

The Temptation to Make It About You

Awards have a sneaky way of turning the spotlight inward.

You start thinking you are a genius. You are the voice. You are the reason it all worked.

And just like that, ego moves in and takes over the living room.

But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that real creativity isn’t about the self, it’s about service. About offering something to the world. About making room for voices beyond your own.

If you start creating for applause, you stop creating for people.

Keep the Dust, Ditch the Pressure

So no, I’m not anti-award. I just don’t think they’re sacred.

Celebrate them when they come. Thank the people who helped get you there. Then set them down, get back to your desk, and do the next thing that scares the hell out of you.

Because the work still matters.
The process still matters.
The why still matters.

And the best stuff you’ll ever do probably won’t fit in a frame anyway.

So let the trophies collect dust. Let the world think what it will. Just promise yourself this: you’ll never let the spotlight blind you to the joy of building something that matters, even if no one’s watching.