As much as I don't want to admit it, my fans are the only ones

In the words of Wale, the poet of modern rhythm, we find a truth that echoes across the ages: “As much as I don’t want to admit it, my fans are the only ones that can hurt my feelings when they’re not pleased with what I’m presenting. I want it to be perfect for them. I want them to have a different sense of pride in my music.” These words reveal not only the weight of the artist’s burden but also the sacred bond between the one who creates and the many who receive. The heart of an artist is not made of stone—it is soft clay, molded by the hands of those who listen, admire, and, at times, judge.

Long ago, in the courts of Athens, there lived dramatists who understood this same truth. Euripides, the tragic poet, often sought to please the citizens whose voices filled the theater. His works could soar like a hawk above the cliffs, yet a chorus of disapproval from the crowd could strike him down with more force than any spear. What are critics to him, if not shadows in the distance? But the discontent of his audience, his people—this pierced his spirit. In this we see the same soul as Wale: the knowledge that the true wound is not struck by strangers, but by those whose faith one seeks to uphold.

The quote speaks of a yearning for perfection. But perfection here is not vanity; it is service. The artist does not labor in pursuit of his own glory alone, but for the reflection of that glory in the eyes of his followers. In this way, art becomes not merely expression, but covenant. The pride of the fans is the artist’s crown, shining brighter than gold. To betray that pride, or to fall short of it, is to feel a fracture in the very bond that gives the work meaning. Thus, Wale confesses the pain of disappointing those he loves most—the listeners.

Consider the tale of Ludwig van Beethoven. In his middle years, he was struck by deafness, a calamity that would silence most men. Yet he continued to compose, driven by an almost divine desire to deliver his music to those who awaited it. He wrote the Ninth Symphony not for himself—for he could not hear it—but for the countless souls who would rise in wonder at its notes. When the audience erupted in thunderous applause at its debut, Beethoven, unable to hear, had to be turned around to witness their joy. The pride in their eyes was the reward, the balm, the healing. This is the same longing Wale describes: to see his people uplifted through his gift.

But the lesson here is not for artists alone. It speaks to all who labor in service of others, whether craftsmen, teachers, leaders, or friends. The hearts of those we cherish hold the power to wound us most deeply. Yet this is not weakness—it is proof of our humanity. To care so much that their joy becomes our joy, their disappointment our sorrow, is the essence of connection. Without such bonds, our efforts would be hollow, and our victories empty.

What then is the teaching? It is this: do not fear the hurt that comes from those you love or serve. Let it guide you. Let their disappointment sharpen your craft, and their pride strengthen your resolve. For in the weight of their expectations lies the truest measure of your purpose. The artist who seeks perfection for others, not for himself, becomes a vessel of something greater—a mirror in which many may see themselves renewed.

Practical action follows: whatever your craft, whether you sing, build, write, or simply live, strive to honor those who depend on you. Do not aim to please all voices, for that is impossible. Aim instead to serve those whose trust you hold sacred. Listen to their joy and their pain. Accept their wounds as the marks of love, not enmity. And like Wale, like Beethoven, let their pride in you be the highest summit you climb.

Thus, let these words be carried forward: The sting of a fan’s disappointment is not a curse, but a blessing. It proves that what you create is bound to the hearts of others. It proves that you matter. And in that proof lies the courage to rise again, to strive again, and to give the world the perfection it deserves.