Redefining Creative Success in an Airport Lounge
If you’ve ever caught yourself scrolling through someone else’s follower count and wondering why yours doesn’t look the same—this one’s for you.
Airports are liminal spaces. Halfway between where you were and where you’re supposed to be. I’ve always liked them for that reason. Nobody expects you to be whole in an airport. Everyone is half-formed: jet-lagged, caffeinated, stretched thin by time zones. Someone sips a mimosa at 5 a.m. „just because.“ Someone else walks barefoot into the lounge bathroom. Suddenly wearing sweatpants feels like having your life together (sorry, Karl!).
And sometimes—if you’re lucky—you meet someone interesting by accident.
That’s the thing about airport lounges at 7 a.m.: they’re a strange mix of relief and limbo, perfect setting for unexpected clarity.
The tattooed stranger & the exhausted writer
I had just grabbed a glass of orange juice when I noticed black-inked hands at the table next to mine. He’d chosen the middle table—which already felt unusual in a lounge where most people hide along the walls—but he just sprawled out, white shirt slightly rumpled, resting across the surface like he was a cat taking a nap in the sun. His phone wasn’t even held to his ear but lying flat on the table, and he mumbled into it half-asleep. His voice carried that unmistakable morning roughness; not just sleepy, but something deeper, a kind of exhaustion that was bone-deep.
Ink covered his arms in a way that felt deliberate, not decorative. It wasn’t the usual sticker-sleeve of random designs; there was a rhythm to it, a system, as if every line had been placed with intention. Jet-black hair framed his face; far too perfect for this hour of the morning, which only made me more aware of my own sleek bun that wasn’t staying sleek at all thanks to Korean humidity.
For a moment, it felt like the perfect snapshot of lounge life: strangers, side by side, each tucked into their own little bubbles of waiting.
I was minding my business, trying to make sense of my own notes for a thought-piece article I’d ghostwritten for a client, when it happened: two girls lined up right behind us and started drowning him with gifts and questions. It was a polite back-and-forth: „thank you, love,“ „it’s alright, darling.“ His tone never faltered, smooth and professional, but one of them looked close to tears, and the questions were already far too personal.
I couldn’t help it: my German instincts betrayed me, and I shot them the side-eye of side-eyes. They didn’t notice, of course. But he did. Midway through their tornado of questions, he glanced over and apologized to me for the interruption. I waved it off with a quiet „it’s okay.“ It’s not like it was his fault.
And that’s the thing with celebrities: as authentic as they might seem, there is always a line. They have to keep a professional distance. Those polished words and practiced tones are part of their survival kit. Fans consider them to be approachable, as if the warmth is intimacy, but in truth it’s a boundary. A way to protect themselves and their last real luxury: privacy.
Eventually, his manager arrived, calm but efficient, and with one look it was clear she’d been there many times before. She, too, apologized to me for disturbing the peace, and again I repeated: „it’s okay, not his fault.“ We exchanged a few words while the two girls finally walked away.
Fame is a magnetic field. It bends the surrounding air, pulling people in whether you invite them or not.
When the quiet gave way to conversation
When the girls finally left, he turned back to me and apologized again, which I absolutely hadn’t expected. I expected this would be the end of it, that he’d retreat into silence until boarding. Instead, one casual question slipped out, and suddenly the quiet gave way to conversation.
He fumbled over how to describe his music—tossing out „alternative, indie… definitely not K-pop“, and when I teased him about being a sprinkle of everything, he chuckled. The atmosphere shifted, lighter, more open.
What surprised me most was how easily it kept going. It wasn’t the kind of small talk you use to kill time in a lounge. It had an ease to it, a genuine back-and-forth. He asked about my life. I added things here and there, but mostly he kept steering the conversation forward, leaning in rather than checking out. Every time there was a natural way for him to end it, to glance at his phone, to disappear into his exhaustion, but he didn’t.
He was sharper than I expected. More observant. Most men, when they find out you’re a writer, puff up like pigeons during mating season and start reciting the only book they ever finished in college. He didn’t. He just listened, and fired questions back like he was genuinely curious where my head would go next. Despite being tired he was chatty, and I realized it was probably because I wasn’t fangirling over him or showering him with compliments. I just showed curiosity about his music, the same way I’d ask anyone about their job and what they’re passionate about.
What made it even more refreshing was how random he could be. His mind jumped from one topic to another in a way that felt familiar because I’m the same. It was intriguing, he seemed to have such an interesting, restless mind.
That’s what made this interaction so rare. Because when someone carries fame on their shoulders, the air around them often shifts. People project, expect, demand. But for these almost 30 minutes, none of that was in the room. It was just two people in an airport lounge, exchanging stories about music, cities, dogs, languages, and writing.
The creative drought I’d been carrying
Here’s what I haven’t told you yet: when I met him, I wasn’t burned out in the classic sense. I was still working. Still meeting deadlines. Still showing up for clients. On paper, I was functioning perfectly fine.
But my creativity? Nonexistent.
Not from overwork or exhaustion, but from something far more insidious: I had drained it completely by focusing on vanity metrics instead of actually creating. The spark that used to ignite when I sat down to write my own words? Gone. The ideas that used to flow freely? Dried up. I could execute client work on autopilot, but when it came to my own writing, my own voice, my own stories … there was nothing but silence.
I had been sitting with too many doubts: Am I too much or not enough? Does anyone even care? I’d been carrying grief, constant uncertainty about my writing, and what I’m actually building. And my body wasn’t staying quiet about it either: I was suffering from more migraines during that period than usual, as if my brain was literally protesting against what I was doing and what I actually needed to be doing.
I was trapped in a cycle I couldn’t see clearly until that morning.
For months, I’d been chasing follower counts. Because that’s what the coaches I paid for told me to do. „Grow your audience,“ they said. „Build your platform.“ So I posted, scheduled, optimized, analyzed. I watched the numbers creep up slowly (agonizingly slowly, ugh) while my creative energy drained faster than my phone battery on a long-haul flight without a working power outlet. The irony wasn’t lost on me:
I was so busy trying to appear creative online that I had no energy left to actually be creative.
Every hour spent analyzing engagement rates was an hour I didn’t spend writing. Every moment obsessing over follower counts was a moment I wasn’t creating anything meaningful. My writing, the thing I loved most, became something I only did for clients, never for myself.
I was starving my creativity; like deliberately starving the very thing that made me who I am, in pursuit of numbers that meant nothing.
And the worst part? I had convinced myself that my work didn’t matter because the metrics weren’t impressive enough.
(Never mind that I had managed social media for +30 clients, ghostwritten for 15 thought leaders, translated 25+ romance novels & 10+ LitRPG novels, crafted copy for international brands, self-published a book (under a pen name), delivered 3 speaking engagements and built an international network across 5 countries in 4 years.)
None of that felt like enough. Because I don’t have 10K followers. Because my Instagram engagement rate wasn’t what some guru said it should be. Because I was invisible to the algorithm. Because I don’t have 500+ LinkedIn connections.
I had reduced my entire professional identity to vanity metrics. And in doing so, I’d suffocated my creativity. The very thing that made me who I am, the ability to create, to write, to tell stories, had withered under the weight of analytics and audience-building strategies.
It wasn’t that I was doing too much. I was creating too little. And that drought? That was the real crisis.
The mirror I didn’t know I was looking into
When I met him in that lounge, I didn’t realize I was looking into a mirror. And in that very normal conversation, something clicked. A small, unspoken recognition: being seen simply as a person with a story worth hearing was the push I didn’t know I needed.
For half an hour, I didn’t feel too much or not enough. I just felt like me. And it was enough.
Even the smallest details carried weight. When I handed him my business card, he didn’t just take it and shove it in his pocket. He looked at it. Commented on it. He could have nodded politely and moved on. Instead, he reflected: what you do is interesting.
Not „how many followers do you have?“ Not „what’s your engagement rate?“ Just: what you do is interesting.
That was the spark. The one I’d been suffocating under a pile of analytics dashboards and content calendars.
The permission slip I didn’t know I needed
I’m also a little bit of an astrology weirdo, the type who believes the universe places people in your orbit for a reason. And I can’t shake the feeling that maybe this was one of those moments.
Even if he never contacts me, the reason we met was clear: to remind me that I don’t have to be afraid of being seen. That showing up unfiltered doesn’t make me unlikable. It makes me human. And most of the time, people like that version the best.
It was the nudge I needed. One that had been lingering in the back of my mind. I’d been circling the thought of showing up again, of publishing under my own name, of no longer benching my own ideas.
For years, I’ve been ghostwriting for other people, helping them tell their stories, publishing under a pen name, translating other people’s stories. And while I love shaping words for others, I’ve also grown afraid of sharing my own. Afraid of being judged, misunderstood…
But talking to him, watching how he keeps going despite the cons of being visible, despite the fact that privacy is the one luxury he’ll never fully have again… It clicked for me. If you have a gift worth sharing (in his case, music; in my case, writing), you shouldn’t hide it. You shouldn’t let fear, or algorithms, or the absence of likes and shares dictate your worth.
Your achievements are part of your personal brand. They are your story. And there’s no need to hide them because someone else’s metrics look shinier.
Because the point of being a creative person—of being an artist—is to take up space in this world and make it just a little better. A sprinkle more colorful. A touch less predictable. It’s like being born to be a plot twist in a world full of straight lines.
The Spark That Was Always There
So if you’re wondering why this article suddenly exists, why I’m writing here instead of staying behind the scenes for clients, it’s because this reminder, handed to me in the middle of an airport lounge at 7 a.m. between stale croissants and boarding calls, disguised as nothing special, but in truth, was everything I needed.
A stranger didn’t give me a spark. He helped me remember the one that had always been there. The one I’d been suffocating under the weight of vanity metrics and other people’s definitions of success.
It was rare, and I’m grateful for it.
As long as you try to be yourself, walk through the world with openness and kindness, sparks can get reignited. And you can meet people who surprise you, or shift something in you. That morning showed me how powerful those little moments of human connection can be.
To every creative person reading this who’s ever felt like they’re not enough:
Your work matters. Your achievements matter. You don’t need permission from an algorithm to own your story. And you don’t need 10K followers to be worthy of visibility. You just need to show up, be yourself, and trust that the right people will see you when they need it the most.
Sometimes that’s a stranger in an airport lounge. Sometimes it’s someone reading your words on a screen. But it always starts with you choosing to be visible. On your own terms.
Until the next spark.