For years I have slept like absolute garbage. I struggle to fall asleep every night, and it’s not uncommon for me to wake up five or more times, for no obvious reason. I’ve done all the things, and nothing seems to really help that much. The most effective thing, surprisingly, is listening to a sleep story from Calm, so I’ve been doing that. Every night, LeVar reads me to sleep, which is pretty great.

I’ve been sleeping in the guest room for a week or so, so Anne doesn’t have to deal with me tossing and turning and all the rest, so instead of rolling over and saying good morning, I stagger into the living room and say good morning.

Over the weekend, I walked out, saw Anne, and before I could say anything she said, “Did you see it?”

Friends, there is only one “it” I want to see when I wake up, and it’s the same thing we all want.

“What? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“No, no, not that,” she said. “Sorry. It’s not that.”

“Dude, you can’t do that to me. My heart can’t take it.” I weighed out my coffee beans. While I poured them into the grinder, she said, “Stephen King posted on Threads that he and Simon and Schuster are putting your narration of The Body up for Grammy consideration!”

That just about knocked me off my feet. “What?”

She repeated herself. “Open up Threads and look.”

“I can’t! I’m not looking at the Internet for 30 minutes after I wake up.” I reached into the cabinet and pulled out a coffee mug.

She tapped on her phone a few times and hurried over to me while I dumped the ground coffee into my Aeropress, and poured some water over it to start a bloom.

“Look!”

“Okay, that is pretty awesome,” I said. I stirred the damp grounds, then saturated them and let bloom finish. I filled the tube the rest of the way and put the plunger in with a satisfying hiss.

“I’m so proud of you!” Anne said. I pushed the plunger down, silently cursed that I always get some out of the sides and onto the counter, and was quiet until I was done. I set it aside and sipped my coffee.

I thought for a moment. I never cared about awards, and the few times I won, I always felt like a fraud, like someone felt sorry for me, or it was just about publicity, or a dumb popularity contest. It wasn’t about acknowledging and honoring art that I made¹. “I want the work to speak for itself,” I always said, and I meant it. But I never let anyone know that there was a very small part of me, tucked safely away from everyone (including me, sometimes) who held out some hope that, maybe, if it were an Oscar … but that voice was always drowned out by another that said since that is never going to happen, just fucking forget it, man.

So I did. What initially started out as caring so much I had to insist I didn’t care, actually became sincerely not caring. Just do the work and don’t expect any external validation for it. It’s the work, itself, that matters².

“Is everything okay?”

I realized that I had been quiet, staring at my reflection in the black liquid.

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. I was just thinking … all those times I was nominated for stuff when I was younger, none of that work was mine, right? I wasn’t being recognized for art I created because that art was important to me; I was desperately trying to earn a place in my family by doing what I was told I had to do. I guess I felt like any attention or accolade was negative reinforcement for my mom, you know?

“All that time, whenever I worked really hard and earned literally anything, my mother jumped in to claim as much of it as she could for herself. When something cool happened because I worked really hard to make it happen, my dad never cared. I always felt stupid for caring, so I stopped caring. You can’t be disappointed that you didn’t win, or that your parents are still dogshit when you did win, if you don’t care.” I did that tapping the head meme thing.

“Yeah, I get that. I’m still really proud of you, though.”

I sipped more coffee.

“Thank you.” I closed my eyes, furrowed my brow, and rubbed my free hand across my forehead, into my bedhead. I noticed something unexpected.

“I think … I think that I am proud of me, too,” I ventured.

“Good! You should be!”

I rubbed sleep out of the corner of my left eye. “I think that this feels different because –” I held up a hand, “wait. First of all, I’m not going to win this. And I’m probably not even going to be nominated,”

“Dude, why ar–” she looked disappointed.

“Hang on. I hear you. I’m getting there, but that’s just part of why I think I feel this way.

“This time is different, and I feel genuinely happy and proud of myself, because I know that I did good work when I narrated The Body. Gabrielle and I both knew it when we were recording. It’s like the way I knew Stand By Me was going to be special when we were making it.” I blew across the top of my mug.

“The narration feels like that work, that art, is mine in a way that most of my other work is not. I feel like my performance in this narration is special, that it’s something only I could do, and I absolutely own that. That’s really enough.”

Anne smiled and I took a deep breath.

“It’s so unlikely I receive a nomination, just because of math and all the tremendously talented narrators who have probably been nominated before, who will also be considered. But I’m not minimizing this very cool thing that Stephen King posted, at all. That post means that the publisher, and Stephen King himself, feel the same way about my narration as I do. They at least feel like nobody is going to laugh at us because I’m clearly not qualified to be White House Press Secretary, like and such as.”

We giggled together.

“Five days!” She sad.

“It’s the funniest thing, ever,” I agreed. “These fucking dorks, I swear.”

More giggles.

“Anyway,” I continued, “I’ve known about this for all of five minutes, so I’m going to take the day to process it. No matter what, I’m going to allow myself to feel good about this, because it is a genuinely cool thing on its own. I am sincerely proud of myself.”

She hugged me. “You totally deserve this. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you. I am proud of me too. I just need some time to get used to that, and not feel weird about it.”

A few hours later, I was out for a walk, thinking about all of this, and I had a moment that was similar to the first time I heard the birds singing. I noticed that I felt genuinely and safely proud of myself, excited to do more work like this, confident and secure in myself as an artist.

There is this thing happening in me that has been slowly going on for a few months. I feel like I’m getting to really know myself, especially my artistic self, in a way I never tried to before. All my therapy and CPTSD recovery work has helped me set aside and walk away from all these ways I made myself small so my parents and brother could feel big, all the choices I made to deny who I truly was, not only as an artist but as a person, in a futile effort to earn the kind of affection, support, stability, and love that all kids should get from our parents because we exist³.

As I’ve gotten to know myself, as I have recovered from so much pain and complex trauma, just working so hard to get from always feeling angry to just feeling sad, I have embraced the weird theater kid, who loves to tell stories, I have always been. I found the courage to retire from on-camera acting, which I never wanted to do in the first place, without throwing out the skills I developed when I was doing it. I’m a good narrator because I understand story, I understand character arcs, I know how to break down a whole story, how to break down a scene, how to create and maintain unique and interesting characters for 24 hours of narration. I did that. I put in the hours and the energy and worked as hard as I could to do the best performances possible, to get to this place where I can actually feel proud of myself. It’s a new thing to feel confident, to feel like I can hold my own with the people who earn nominations and get awards, because this is what I want to do with my creative life, this is my art, this is something I made for myself that makes my heart sing⁴.

When I got home, I found Anne and wrapped my arms around her. We hugged tightly and I told her what I’d thought about during my walk.

“I get all of that,” she said, “and I’m really happy for you.”

“Thanks, I’m happy for me, too!”

It was so weird to say that, and know that it was the truth.

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Hi, I’m Wil. I narrate audiobooks (you probably figured that out) and I write this blog. I’m on Threads and Instagram as @itswilwheaton. I host a podcast, It’s Storytime With Wil Wheaton, where I narrate short, speculative fiction. New episodes drop Wednesdays. If you’d like to get my posts to your inbox, here is the thingy:

One last thing before I go:

1. I think, after decades of space between then and now, that I can allow myself to accept that, maybe, I did deserve whatever accolades I got, because it was given to me for my work. I wish I’d been able to feel that, back then. ↩︎
2. Some of that work was good, none of it was great. I spend twenty years trying to figure out why, and recently came to understand, like, almost everything. That’s its own post in the future. ↩︎
3. It is so fucked up that both of my parents, and my father’s entire family, made us feel like we had to earn love and support, like we were constantly being graded. I was in my 30s before I found out how incredibly not normal that is. My sister and I talk all the time about how we unconditionally love our children, and how aware we both are of the ways our parents withheld their very conditional affection. God, it’s so gross. ↩︎
4. Man, it’s taking everything I have to not go back and delete that, conditioned as I have always been to downplay my accomplishments and abilities, lest I be accused of being “too big for your britches” by my dad. Well, fuck you, dude. I feel really good about myself, and super proud of the work I did. And I guess Stephen King agrees with me, and he knows a hell of a lot more about art and storytelling than you do. ↩︎