The Paradox of Significance: Fame, Power, and the Inner Voice

After submitting this piece to both the Washington Post and New York Times and receiving polite rejections, I found myself grateful for two reasons. First, these rejections remind me of my own insignificance—something I’ve embraced and, in fact, found liberating. Second, they offer a chance for self-reflection, prompting me to measure my work against my internal values, rather than resorting to excuses rooted in external circumstances. In a world obsessed with external validation, being turned away has reinforced that true growth stems from within.

As Latinos in the United States continue to grow as a powerful political force, we must remember that with this influence comes a responsibility—not just to our community, but to the greater good. I call on my fellow Latinos to critically examine how we use our votes, not simply for short-term gains, but with the foresight to shape a better future. It’s common to feel trapped by the "least worst" choice in elections. Whether the candidate identifies as Democrat, Republican, or Independent, we must carefully evaluate their integrity. Philosopher Karl Popper's insight that all leaders, regardless of party, should be scrutinized remains relevant. Despite disillusionment, we must continue to vote because voting keeps power in the hands of the people and allows us to influence the future—even when the choices feel imperfect.

Michael Singer once said, "death is the best teacher," a humbling reminder that public figures—whether they be figures like Rush Limbaugh or seemingly untouchable politicians—all share the same fate as the rest of us. Their fame and political clout are fleeting. In truth, I’d even prefer to publish anonymously, knowing that the pursuit of recognition in a fame-driven world often runs counter to the humility I seek to cultivate.

When I reflect on modern intellectuals like Alain de Botton and Jordan Peterson, I see two contrasting visions of our times. De Botton’s humanism critiques the obsessive chase for fame and status, urging a turn inward. He encourages emotional intelligence, self-knowledge, and love over empty recognition. Politicians, he warns, often exploit our hunger for acknowledgment to fortify their own positions. His work resonates with those weary of external pressures, reminding us that fulfillment comes from within.

Peterson, on the other hand, embraces the tension between chaos and order, drawing heavily from Jung and Nietzsche. His call to personal responsibility resonates with many feeling adrift in today’s complex world. Yet, his endorsement of Donald Trump in 2024 reveals a tension in his thinking: how can a figure so driven by personal gain and fame align with Peterson's moral framework of virtue and order? Peterson views Trump as a necessary disruptor of globalist forces, yet Trump's actions often seem to contradict the very principles of responsibility and virtue that Peterson advocates.

In contrast to these thinkers, my own life has been an attempt to distance myself from the trappings of fame and political ambition. A post I once made on social media, “The lust for fame is the last thing wise men conquer,” reflects this pursuit. Unlike Peterson, I don't view chaos as a path to virtue, and unlike de Botton, my critique expands beyond personal relationships to the broader societal paradoxes we navigate. For me, political and social systems are flawed, often magnifying our weaknesses instead of elevating our altruistic potential.

This brings me to George Carlin, a nihilistic critic of politics whose perspective I deeply connect with. Like Carlin, who grew up near Columbia University in Manhattan and shared a similar experience with an absent, alcoholic father, I understand his deep disillusionment with political systems. His rejection of politics as a meaningful pursuit resonates with me. Carlin saw the absurdity in our political machines and the blind faith people often place in them. However, unlike Carlin, I continue to vote—not out of belief in the system, but out of a sense of responsibility. Our politicians, after all, reflect our collective flaws.

Where de Botton suggests fulfillment comes from focusing on our inner lives, and Peterson emphasizes individual responsibility in the face of chaos, Carlin dismisses these notions altogether, viewing politics as a futile exercise. I acknowledge the absurdity of it all but still engage in the process, embracing what I call the Sisyphus-like task of confronting human fallibility through active participation.

Where I diverge from all of these thinkers is in my embrace of “optimistic nihilism”—the belief that while life may lack inherent meaning, we can create purpose through compassion, reflection, and awareness. This isn’t chaos for the sake of virtue, nor is it simply about personal contentment. It’s an active, deliberate effort to carve out meaning in a world that often feels devoid of it.

When I look at figures like Trump or Kamala Harris, I see two individuals deeply entwined in the pursuit of fame and power, both perpetuating the illusion of meritocracy—the flawed belief that success is purely earned rather than inherited or manipulated. Peterson’s endorsement of Trump plays into the very forces he seeks to critique, while Harris’s rise exemplifies the same problem in a different guise.

In my view, the antidote to nihilism isn’t fame or power—it’s moral growth, achieved through quiet introspection and acts of selflessness. The path forward lies in resisting the lure of external validation and staying true to one’s moral compass.

Ultimately, I aim to remove myself from the equation, aware of the irony that my name remains attached to these thoughts. But that’s the challenge we all face—to critique power without succumbing to its allure, to resist fame while pursuing purpose, and to measure our happiness by the voice of our conscience rather than public recognition. Unlike Carlin, who was a linguistic genius, I have yet to conquer the limitations of language in expressing these ideas fully.

There are moments when I grow frustrated with the limits of language, particularly when grappling with labels like atheist or agnostic and the stigmas they carry. Yet, I remind myself of a simple truth: our relationship with the divine—whether we call it God, fate, or the forces beyond our control—is like our relationship with the sun. If we hide from the sun for years and then step out of the shadows, the sun remains there, shining as if we had never left. There is no need for apology or explanation—just turn toward it. The same is true for reconnecting with something greater than ourselves.

Though my words may never grace the pages of the New York Times or Washington Post, the act of writing itself has been a reward. And in their rejection, I’m reminded to keep listening to that inner voice—free from the need for external validation—and encourage others to do the same.