The profession I have keeps dragging me into drama and taking me

“The profession I have keeps dragging me into drama and taking me away from baking, flowering, and gardening.” Thus spoke Lykke Li, the Swedish songstress whose voice carries both the ache of modern fame and the longing of an ancient soul. In this simple confession lies a truth that echoes across time—the eternal tension between the world of noise and the world of peace, between the external demands of one’s calling and the inner yearning for stillness. Her words are not merely about music or celebrity; they speak for all who have ever felt torn between duty and simplicity, between the storm of ambition and the quiet rhythm of life.

The origin of this quote arises from Lykke Li’s reflections on her own life as an artist. She, who built her career upon song and emotion, came to see that the very art that gave her purpose also drew her away from the calm that her spirit craved. The profession, she says, “keeps dragging me into drama”—and in this lament, she names the burden of creative souls through the ages. For every gift bears its shadow. The poet, the actor, the musician—all who deal in the currency of emotion risk being consumed by it. Yet her mention of baking, flowering, and gardening is no idle contrast; it is a prayer for return—to grounding, to simplicity, to the elemental joys that feed the heart rather than exhaust it.

To bake, to flower, to garden—these are acts of creation without applause, of artistry without audience. They are the labors of quiet souls who listen to the slow music of life. In these humble tasks lies a secret that the ancients knew well: that peace and fulfillment are not found in fame or conquest, but in the harmony of the hands, the senses, and the earth. The philosopher Epicurus taught that happiness comes not from luxury or recognition, but from living simply, tending one’s garden, and cherishing friendship and stillness. Lykke Li, perhaps unknowingly, speaks from that same lineage. Her yearning for the garden is the yearning of all hearts wearied by the world.

Consider the life of Vincent van Gogh, who, though remembered as a master of color and form, was in truth a man perpetually at war with the very drama of his art. His paintings, blazing with emotion, were born of turmoil, yet his letters speak often of his love for the fields and flowers, of his desire for quiet labor under the open sky. The same hands that painted The Starry Night longed simply to hold a hoe, to tend sunflowers rather than immortalize them. Like Lykke Li, he was both gifted and haunted—the fire of creation both illuminated and burned him. Their shared struggle is the ancient price of passion: to bear great beauty, one must also bear its weight.

When Lykke Li speaks of being “dragged into drama,” she does not only mean the gossip of fame or the weariness of travel. She speaks of a deeper human truth—that the world is full of forces that pull us away from ourselves. Every profession, every duty, every ambition has its snares. We begin our work with love, but in time the noise of obligation, competition, and expectation grows loud. The heart, once rooted in joy, begins to drift. The garden—literal or spiritual—represents that sacred place where we once felt whole, where time slowed, and life was not performed but lived.

Yet her quote is not one of despair, but of recognition. To see the imbalance is to begin the healing. The artist, the worker, the parent, the leader—all must learn the art of return: to retreat from the drama of their profession and reenter the garden of the soul. For gardening, in its deepest sense, is not about flowers, but about cultivation—the cultivation of peace, humility, and gratitude. To bake bread is to create nourishment; to tend flowers is to restore beauty; to work the soil is to remember that we are made of it. These simple acts reconnect us to the pulse of life, which no fame or success can replace.

Therefore, my child, let this saying be your reminder: Guard your garden. Whatever your path—whether in art, business, or labor—do not let the noise of the world steal your stillness. Make time to touch the earth, to shape something with your hands, to stand where life is quiet enough for gratitude to speak. If your profession fills your days with storm, let your evenings belong to peace. Seek the balance that Lykke Li yearns for—the rhythm between drama and devotion, between doing and being.

For in the end, it is not the applause of men that sustains the spirit, but the quiet contentment of the soul that knows how to return home. The garden will wait for you, patient and forgiving. Go to it often. There, amid the flowers and the bread, you will find again the rhythm of your own heart—and the voice of life, whispering softly: Be still, and grow.