About that thing you thought you loved...

Have we forgotten how to purely enjoy things?

There’s something special, even sacred and pure about experiencing something for the first time, all by yourself. I’m sure you know what I mean. It could be a book, a computer game or even just a new restaurant in your city.

In these first moments it’s just you and the thing itself. No outside voice telling you what to think or how to feel. That first reaction is beautiful because it is the most honest one you’ll ever have.

Then comes the fatal mistake.

You pull out your phone and start reading what everyone else thinks. Maybe you’re wanting a quick validation on your own feelings, or a deeper understanding or context for the thing. But what you find instead is the slow death of your own authentic experience — you just don’t know it yet.

“The enemy is the gramophone mind, whether or not one agrees with the record that is being played at the moment.” - George Orwell

In the beginning, your new interest seems so wonderful and energizing. You’re excited because you finally found your circle. You joined a community of likeminded people who seem to be interested in the same thing as you. But then you start scrolling. The critics, the forums, the endless feeds of opinions dissecting the very thing you just fell in love with. Suddenly that wonderful feeling you had starts to fade. You’re not so sure about it anymore.

Say you just watched this movie you totally loved, and were especially charmed by an unknown actor who plays the lead role. But then you read online that most people didn’t really like this actor, they found many faults in his performance, and generally his acting is considered terrible. Damn, what do you think now? Do you still love the movie? Or do you go back and reassess? At this point you’re questioning everything. And the deeper you go, the worse it gets.

I see this all the time. People discover something they love and then immediately look around to see if they’re allowed to love it, as if they need permission.

The internet made this even worse. Before, you had to work hard to find people who would crush what you love. Now they’re everywhere. Critics, forums, the reviews section, “true fans,” random internet voices — everyone is eager to jump in with their innocent “well, actually...”

And the thing is, it doesn’t even have to be harsh criticism. It can be the tiniest details. A small continuity error in a movie you enjoyed, or a slightly problematic thing an author you like said 10 years ago. You just can’t unsee it and your experience of the thing is forever altered. The real tragedy is the permanence of this “contamination” because it’s almost impossible for you to go back to how you felt in the beginning. The love is gone and it won’t return.

I felt like this when I first got deep into road cycling. I absolutely loved it. But I hated being around the hardcore cyclist community (even though I was one of them, in theory). I couldn’t enjoy it anymore because I got too deeply involved into the communities who told me “you can’t do this, you’re not supposed to do that.” Before I didn’t care, I just loved cycling. Now these faceless people are in the back of my head watching me do it, making me wonder, even as I try to enjoy it, if I’m actually doing it all wrong.

I’m not against criticism. We’re social animals, hardwired for connection and consensus. But there’s something worth protecting in that space between you and something that moves you, before the world weighs in and ruins it for you.

Sometimes the most validating act is to experience something completely on your own terms. To say, “This matters to me, and I don’t need to know why or if anyone agrees.” To try, at least with some things, to keep them to yourself, so you can purely enjoy it.