Sometimes we feel like what we're doing has no impact.

Sometimes it genuinely does not.

So what do we do?

There are a couple of potential points of failure. Let's play doctor and diagnose.

Does what we're doing have any impact? Or is our assessment a feeling? What does impact mean anyway?

How about I throw out the dreaded omni-applicable response: it depends. What we measure is contingent on context. If we're measuring "impact" of what we do, we can ask ourselves: what is our goal? What are we trying to impact? What does the achievement of being "impactful" look like? Can we define it in a way that is empirically, not subjectively, true?

Tangent: I don't know about you, but the constant framing of everything in goals can be exhausting. I get it's effective. I espouse it, I use it, I am a poster child for goal setting. But there's an intuitive sense in myself—and perhaps you resonate—that not all pursuits are best when goal-oriented. Perhaps subjective measurements are sufficient. Perhaps setting definitive goals gets in the way of pursuing the practice itself. Perhaps the practice itself is the goal, and its fruits are yet unknown.

Now back to impact: we've all heard the adage, "when a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" Is the sound relevant, impactful? It may exist on the plane of physics, but does it exist on the plane of "impact" or effect on others?

I'm no koan surgeon, but I'll say this: everything has an effect and an impact, even if unseen, unheard, unfelt.

This is particularly true in creative practice. Showing up each day, even when our practice is not shared, has impact. Indeed, the creator is often the recipient of that impact.

I posed this very question about my blog: is it worth continuing to write each day, even when no one is reading? I have written almost 250 posts since 2024. I share a post here or there with a friend, but I am not monetizing via Substack nor reaching an audience.

My posts are trees falling in the forest. So why do I keep writing?

My writing is a practice. This practice is a process of planting seeds in a garden. I am not yet a skilled gardener, but I trust the seeds will sprout. Some of my seeds will turn into trees. Some of these trees will provide shade, others will bear fruit. The gardener’s tools are not just a shovel and watering can—but consistency and patience.

I came to writing with a desire and a thesis. The desire was inexplicable—just a knowing of something I wanted. The thesis was the tool to allow my mind to justify spending time writing each day. The thesis is that writing would sharpen my faculties of reasoning, articulation, and expression. It would also create a meaningful legacy, an artifact of who I am well after I die. Perhaps the blog can be a place my loved ones visit when I pass—a means of visiting me, a way of connecting with my expression, a sort of conversation.

While it's true that I have no impact in a capitalist sense—no broad audience, no Substack fat stacks, no fame or fortune—it's also true that I am impacted by my work. I also trust that this practice, this legacy building, this process of showing up each day, is a process of building equity in my own life of who I am as a human being.

All this said, I am also an advocate and a proponent of sharing one's work. "Art doesn't become art until it ships," Seth Godin states. My first step in the shipping pipeline is writing each post and having it available online. The next phase is to put it in front of audiences more deliberately, to test it against the market to see what resonance it inspires in others.

So here's my invitation: if you ever question whether what you're doing has impact, ask yourself: is my work impacting me? How does this work change me, and how does my change affect others? And is my work on the path to impact? What would be the next step to bring my work to a larger audience?

You may find yourself relating to your practice in a whole new way.