I'd Rather Make What's Me Than What Makes Me Popular
Rachel's pottery studio was her sanctuary.
Clay on the wheel. No plan. No deadline. No audience. Just her hands and whatever wanted to come out that day. She'd lose hours in there. Whole afternoons would disappear and she'd come out with clay under her nails and something in her chest that felt like peace.
That was her pearl. Pure. Uncontaminated. Burning from the inside.
Then the internet found her.
The Contamination
It started small. A friend posted a photo of one of Rachel's bowls. People liked it. She posted another. More likes. She opened an Instagram account for her work. Followers came. Then messages: "Do you sell these?" "Can you make me one?" "You should open an Etsy shop."
She should have been thrilled. This is what every creative person dreams about, right? People seeing your work. Wanting your work. Willing to pay for your work.
But something shifted.
"My followers grew, then galleries started calling," she told a friend over lunch. "I should have been thrilled."
She put her fork down.
"Last week I caught myself designing a mug specifically because it would match a popular Instagram aesthetic. I hated it. But I knew it would sell."
Her friend looked at her. "Sounds like your talent got contaminated."
"What do you mean?"
"Mixed with stuff that isn't really yours. External expectations. Market pressures. What other people think you should create rather than what naturally flows from you."
Rachel sat with that word — contaminated — and it hit her like cold water. Because she knew it was true. She could feel it every time she sat at the wheel now. The old silence was gone. In its place was a voice that didn't belong to her: What will people think? What will sell? What gets the most engagement?
The pearl was still there. But it was buried under a layer of other people's opinions. And every day she performed instead of created, the layer got thicker.
What Contamination Feels Like
Here's what I've learned in thirty-five years of working with people whose talent got contaminated. It doesn't feel like losing your gift. It feels like your gift losing you.
You can still do the thing. You're still good at it. Maybe better than ever technically. But the fire is different. It's not burning from inside anymore. It's being fed from the outside — by praise, by money, by followers, by other people's expectations.
And you feel it. You feel the difference between creating because something inside you needs to come out and creating because something outside you needs to be fed.
Kids feel it too. The child who loved drawing until their parents started entering their work in competitions. The musician who played for joy until it became about the showcase. The athlete who played for the love of the game until the scholarship talk started and every practice became a performance.
The adults around them don't mean harm. They see talent and they want to support it. But "support" often turns into "manage." And "manage" turns into "optimize." And "optimize" turns into "perform for an audience that has plans for your gift."
That's contamination. The talent is still there. But it's no longer the child's. It belongs to the market. To the audience. To the parent's dreams. To everyone except the person it was given to.
The Towel Over the Phone
Rachel went home that weekend and did something radical.
She covered her phone with a towel. Closed her laptop. Walked into her studio with nothing — no reference photos, no trending color palettes, no customer requests.
Just clay. Just her hands. Just the silence she used to live in before the world started watching.
For the first time in months, she lost track of time.
When she came out, she had made something that would never trend on Instagram. Something asymmetrical and strange and entirely hers. Something that came from the same place the first bowls came from — before anyone was watching. Before anyone was buying. Before anyone had opinions about what she should make next.
"I'd rather make what's truly mine," she said later, "than what makes me famous."
That's decontamination. And it's the bravest thing a creative person can do — choosing the pearl over the applause.
The Two Contaminants
In my experience, talent faces two contaminants that are more dangerous than any other. Not because they're evil — but because they look like success.
Money. When your gift starts paying, the gift changes. Not always. Not inevitably. But the pressure is real. You start thinking about what sells instead of what's true. You start measuring your pearl by its market value instead of its meaning. And slowly, the thing that used to fill you up starts draining you — because you're not creating anymore. You're producing.
Social opinion. When people start watching, performing replaces creating. You design for the audience instead of the soul. You make choices based on what gets likes, what gets shared, what gets approved. And the voice inside you — the one that knows what's really yours — gets quieter and quieter until you can't hear it at all.
These two contaminants don't announce themselves. They arrive disguised as opportunity. As validation. As proof that your talent matters. And by the time you realize what happened, you're designing mugs for Instagram and hating every one of them.
How the 4 LAWS Protect the Pearl
The Law of Limits gives your child permission to say "I am not comfortable with this." It draws the line where the adult's rights end and the child's begin. No to the competition they don't want to enter. No to the performance they're not ready for. No to the adult who's managing their gift without asking. If the fire doesn't burn naturally — if the motivation isn't intrinsic — we have no way to know whether that activity is real fire or just a short-lived step along the path of growth. Interests change as needs are satisfied at one level and new ones emerge. Limits protects genuine talent from being confused with passing phases.
The Law of Responsibility says you earn the resources you need — hopefully with what you create. It shows you how to reverse poor choices when you're in charge, and makes sure you're compensated for your contributions. Rachel designing mugs she hated for money? That's a responsibility problem. She stopped earning from her pearl and started earning from a counterfeit. Responsibility brings the pearl and the livelihood back into alignment.
The Law of Respect says you give things the importance they merit — and exclude anything that devalues the pearl. Give importance to what values you. Nobody gets to dismiss the pearl. But nobody gets to hijack it either. "You should do more of those — those are what people like" is hijacking disguised as encouragement. Respect means letting the pearl be what it is, even when it's not what you expected.
The Law of Talent has two sides. The child's right is self-determination — they decide when, what, and how to create. They decide what their gift means to them, not what it means to the market or the college admissions board or the Instagram algorithm. The opportunity creation side is for everyone around them — encourage, have faith, believe in what they do even through mistakes. Buy the clay. Pay for the lessons. Give them time at the wheel. Create the conditions for the fire to grow naturally, and then step back and let whatever wants to come out come out.
The Question
If you're an adult reading this, ask yourself: Am I still making what's mine? Or am I making what keeps the audience happy?
If you're a parent, ask yourself: Is my child creating from joy? Or performing for approval?
If you're young and reading this — if you're the kid whose hobby became a hustle, whose passion became a performance, whose thing-you-loved became the thing-that-stresses-you-out — hear me:
Cover the phone. Close the laptop. Go back to the thing you made before anyone was watching. That's your pearl. It's still there. It's been waiting for you to come back.
Rachel went back to her wheel with no plan and no audience. And for the first time in months, she lost track of time.
That's not failure. That's freedom.
Protect the Fire — Learn the 4 LAWS →
Dr. Eduardo M. Bustamante is a Licensed Clinical Psychologist (MA PSY3644) with 35+ years of experience specializing in children's behavioral health. He is the creator of the 4 LAWS of Trust and Talent and founder of 4 LAWS Academy. Learn more at 4lawsacademy.com.
Tags: protecting creativity, talent contamination, social media pressure kids, monetizing passion, pearl, 4 LAWS, creative burnout, kids and social media, performing for approval, finding your passion