ENVY

*slowly breathes in and out as I admit this taboo feeling to the world for the very first time*

Dear Diary,

Keith Lee. Kai Cenat. Malik McIntyre. Deandre Brown. Raymonte Cole. Kalen Allen. Denzel Dion. Ricky Thompson. Jordan Howlett. SexxyRed. IShowSpeed.

Seeing these people, who are either my age or younger—if not in the same generational bracket—landing brand deals, meeting celebrities I’ve idolized since I was a baby, attending award shows, gracing magazine covers, traveling to exotic places, and building massive followings stirs up envy in me. But it’s envy that isn’t only directed at them; it's mostly at myself. Their success confronts me with the feeling that I’m somehow not doing enough—that I’ve limited my potential by following the crowd, choosing the traditional route, and, in some ways, forcing me to confront my classist and elitist ways.

My inner critic rises like the humidity of summer, reminding me of all the times I chose the safer path. The voice says, “But you went to college; you’ve got credentials, awards, and professional endorsements. Isn’t success supposed to follow those things?” But the more I interrogate myself, the more it hits me consciously that life doesn’t run on a strict merit-based system. If only someone had told me that as early as elementary school.

When you have low self-esteem, you constantly seek validation from the outside world instead of looking inward. I also grew up in a family where I was taught not to speak or act "ghetto" and to always be likable to be palatable to the wider world. Education was highly valued, so not going to college didn’t feel like an option—I didn’t want to seem like I was taking the "wrong" path. That’s why I pursued college and applied to countless internships, gigs, and jobs, all to build a traditional career rather than diving into independent content creation.

It’s easy for me to fall into a depressive episode I’ve coined the ‘should’ve-would’ve-could’ve spiral’. I constantly ask: “Khaaliq, why did you go to college?” “Why didn’t you drop out of college?” “Why didn’t I start YouTube at 14?” “Why didn’t I launch into content creation before the market got saturated?” What if I had taken the risk back then, betting on myself instead of waiting for others to give me a seat at their table? But these questions are futile.

I give myself credit for the early success I've achieved, but I see influencers and first-generation celebrities—people my age or younger who are already rich (something I’m not yet)—moving effortlessly through life. They seem to have everything I want, and it makes me feel like I'm in a rat race I’ll never win.

Then the insecurity and self-doubt creep back in. I start calling myself a failure. I disregard entirely my accomplishments and the things that make me unique and criticize myself for not doing enough or not following their blueprint.

Should I have dropped out of college like Kai Cenat? But I’m a nerd who values the importance of education and who went out-of-state for college to reinvent myself socially, gain independence, and escape my Tyler Perry movie-esque dysfunctional family.

Should I be drenched in designer clothes and bags like Ricky Thompson and Malik McIntyre? But I don’t care about wearing designer brands. Give me a simple T-shirt and jeans (or sweatpants) for a down-to-earth boy-next-door look and vibe that is authentically me. I literally remember being so nonchalant at 16 or 17 when my sister gifted me a Coach wallet; I was just glad to have a wallet with a coin purse.

Should I be “WHAT’S UP EvErYbOdYy?? hErE i Is!!”-type ghetto like SexxyRed or GloRilla? But I’m not even from the ghetto. That’s not my story, and it would be so unnatural and mentally painful to force my body and brain to act like somebody I’m not. I have to acknowledge, honor, and give grace to the person I was at the age those people I listed above were when they first started creating. During my teenage and college years, I didn’t have the self-esteem or confidence to dive headfirst into uncertain waters. People often underestimate the lasting damage that being bullied as a child and teenager—can have on your psyche as an adult. My weight was the main target for bullies; I was constantly fat-shamed.

By the time I entered college and started studying Communications, I dreamed of becoming a radio DJ or podcaster, specifically so I wouldn’t have to be on camera, letting people focus solely on my personality. I believed I needed to be toothpick thin to have a presence on screen. But it was others who encouraged me, saying, "No, Khaaliq, you need to be on camera, on YouTube, on TV." For a long time, it felt like other people could see something in me that took me years to finally see in myself. But I also get confused because I always believed that it’s drop-dead gorgeous people (i.e., Malik) aren’t supposed to have personalities, and the ones who are average-looking are the ones who are solely funny.

I was always different from my college classmates. On an average weekday in class, while my fellow students were pumped about idk Alpha Phi Alpha party was happening that coming weekend off-campus, I was daydreaming—I’m always mentally living in the future—about being in the Hollywood Hills brushing shoulders with idols like Mariah Carey, Beyoncé, Brandy, and Wendy Williams. (Sadly, of course, the latter will never happen; I’m too late for that.)

I also never considered a career as a comedian—I was dead set on becoming a celebrity journalist, even though the universe was low-key, dropping hints and synchronicities nudging me toward a different path in the creative industry. But I can be hardheaded. I remember one of my many ex-therapists, Linda (I go through therapists like Lori Harvey goes through men—no shade, we love Lori), saying to me, “But that’s what you wanted at the time.” I’m a perfectionist and overachiever who immediately catastrophizes if everything doesn’t go according to plan or if I fail in some way.

Then, as I dive into this new journey of comedy creation, the questions start creeping in, heavy with anxiety and overthinking. What if I lose followers because of this career pivot since my content will be completely different? What if the people who have been with me all along are like, “What the fuck is he doing?”

How much of myself do I need to share, and how much of my daily life should I put out there to keep it authentic? I want to be consistent, but recording and snapping pictures of everything I do throughout the day feels unnatural. Talking to people while moisturizing and getting dressed to head out for whatever I need to do will make me late. And when I’m with friends, I get so caught up in the moment that I completely forget to record anything. To make matters worse, the side effect of experiencing early success at a young age is that you believe it will continue indefinitely. Then you reach a low point in your life and realize you have to embark on the same tedious journey that most people go through to make their dreams come true. I feel so ready to throw in the towel when my content doesn’t perform as expected.

I remember going to a youth shut-in at my church when I was 19, and one of the youth and young adult ministers, who had to be in his late 20s or early 30s, was telling us about a young woman who missed out on a job paying $86k/year—a job that could have changed her life financially—because she had posted a photo of herself on IG in her panties, scantily clad. It put this fear in my head that I wouldn’t professionally prosper unless I essentially acted like a Disney Channel star on social media. But as the years went on, I looked left and right and saw my peers or others as corporate executives who posted semi or fully-nude photos online and were as publicly unfiltered as a 2024 podcaster. I’m so confused, like… I could’ve been myself this whole time instead of pandering?

Our journeys are unique, but it’s hard to accept that when society projects timelines that define what "success" should look like. We’re given this checklist early on: get your license at 16, go to college at 18, graduate by 22, and so on. Being a Zillennial or elder Gen Zer is something weird at times because I feel like I was prepared for a world that no longer exists. By the time we reached high school or college, the world had done a complete 180, and the goalpost kept being moved by gatekeepers, amplifying the feeling that we missed out on the “real” path to success. Add to that the constant presence of social media—which has existed my entire life—creating a perfect storm for envy and jealousy. (The World Wide Web officially became mainstream the year before I was born, and before MySpace, there were chatrooms and forums.)

The storm feels intense, as the last two years of my life have been a complete shitshow of confusion, career uncertainty, and involuntary prolonged unemployment. Maybe it’s the trauma from being bullied from ages 7 to 19, but I walk into some spaces—and sometimes avoid others altogether—because that paranoia turns into the fear that I’ll be judged or bullied if I admit my current professional status.

Meanwhile, it seems like everyone else has “found” themselves, like the lyrics of “Amazing Grace” go, while I’m still lost, feeling like a professional orphan.

This kind of anxiety also hits hard when I’m out in public, whether it’s for errands or recreational activities, and I unexpectedly run into former classmates, old staff members, family friends, or people I haven’t seen in years. When they ask, “How have you been?” or “How are you doing?” in a friendly, warm tone, it indirectly triggers me, piling on the pressure that turns into my brain scrambling to give them an answer. (What makes it more coincidental is that it’s mostly men—either Black or Hispanic—and I’m not used to being vulnerable with them. I’m used to humble bragging about my life and its many accomplishments.)

A month ago was CultureCon, the biggest annual convention for Black people in the creative industry, and I was too afraid to go. Part of it was my ego and pride—I wasn’t ready to see people in my age bracket as speakers or with VIP access in certain spaces. But a bigger part was the anxiety of running into peers who might ask what I was doing, what I was up to, and what had happened to me over the past two years. I recently read JoJo’s beautifully written memoir, Over the Influence, where she shared a similar feeling when attending events and hangouts with her musical peers during a standstill period in her career. From 2007 to 2014, her career stalled due to her then-label’s distribution issues and their refusal to release her music.

All I know is that I don’t want to be a regular person, I don't want to be a nobody... I mean, I’m not a regular person. If God wanted me to be ordinary, He would’ve made me a heterosexual, able-bodied, toothpick skinny, middle-class, Christian, cisgender white man. I’ve always felt that because I’m not all of these things, I don’t deserve a regular life—I deserve an extraordinary life, and that’s where fame and wealth come in. Plus, to reference Chris Rock, being famous is like having white privilege. I love being Black though, let’s not get it twisted.

I haven’t fully figured out or resolved these complex feelings as of the publishing of this post. I still side-eye and question Raymonte, wondering why he’s got a whole unwelcoming tattoo on his face (is he a Crip or Blood?) and acts like someone’s cousin from da block. The unlearning never ends.

What I do know is that I can channel all the different lives I’ve lived and everything I’ve been through—good, bad, fun, crazy, and indifferent—into my new career path. And if this is the year of late-bloomer female music acts (Chappell Roan, Tinashe, Victoria Monét, Muni Long, Coco Jones, Sabrina Carpenter, and Charli XCX), then as long as I stay on the path of content creation, maybe I’ll be part of the class of late-bloomer influencers in the years to come.