Not long ago, I found myself in conversation with someone who was having “a moment.”
You know the kind I mean—the big splash, the sudden surge of attention, the cultural spotlight shining brightly. They had just experienced a breakthrough that put them on the map, and everyone wanted to be near them.
And yet, as I listened and watched, I couldn’t shake the sense that this success was overwhelming them. Their calendar was packed. Their mind was scattered. Their energy felt frantic, like someone trying to catch water in their hands while more kept pouring in. The attention was exciting, but beneath the surface I could see a lack of practices, rhythms, and grounding that would be necessary to sustain this newfound success.
I’ve seen this pattern before. Someone rides the wave of a cultural moment, gets swept up in the applause, but when the attention fades—as it always does—they don’t have the stability to continue. They were a “moment,” not a mountain.
Later, I met someone else. They weren’t flashy. They weren’t trending on social media or headlining events. In fact, you might not even know their name. But for twenty-five years, they’ve been doing steady, focused, meaningful work. Day after day. Year after year. Their impact isn’t measured in trending hashtags but in the lives they’ve touched, the work they’ve built, and the reputation they’ve cultivated over decades.
This person wasn’t a moment. They were a mountain.
The Allure of the Moment
We live in a culture obsessed with moments. We chase them, celebrate them, and sometimes even worship them. Viral fame, sudden recognition, a big stage, the right mention from the right person—it feels like lightning in a bottle. And for a time, it is.
But the problem with moments is that they are, by definition, temporary. They spike, and then they fade. And if our identity, work, or sense of meaning is tied only to the moment, then when it’s gone, so are we.
Moments aren’t inherently bad. They can be important catalysts. They can launch movements, create opportunities, or shine a light on something valuable. But a moment is not a strategy. A moment cannot sustain a life’s work.
Lessons From the Music Business
When I was a singer-songwriter, I saw this truth play out constantly. Someone would land a big hit—one song that captured the moment, caught the radio wave, and launched them into sudden visibility. For a brief period, it was intoxicating. They were everywhere.
But often, instead of getting back into the writing room, sharpening their skills, and continuing to do the unglamorous work of creating, they tried to coast on that one success. They toured the hit. They lived off the applause. They chased the same formula again and again, rather than deepening their craft. And inevitably, the wind shifted. Their moment faded.
Meanwhile, other artists—sometimes with fewer hits or less mainstream recognition—were quietly building. They kept writing. They kept creating. They played the small clubs. They experimented, explored, and evolved. Over time, they developed not just a catalog but a loyal following. Their careers didn’t burn as brightly in a single instant, but they endured. They became mountains.
This is why I often say: cover bands don’t change the world. A cover band might get a big reaction in the moment. They might even fill a venue for a night. But they’re not building something that lasts. Original voices—those who commit to the ongoing work of creating—are the ones who make a dent in the universe.
The Endurance of the Mountain
Mountains, on the other hand, are not built overnight. They rise slowly, over time, through consistent, unseen forces. A mountain isn’t concerned with attention or applause. Its strength comes from its foundation.
The “mountains” I’ve known—the people whose work endures—are rarely the loudest or flashiest. They are the ones who keep showing up, doing the work, and making progress even when no one is watching. They prioritize rhythms over rush, practices over pressure, depth over display.
And here’s something important: mountains do have moments. A great book release. A breakthrough project. A song that unexpectedly connects. But those moments don’t define them. They’re byproducts, not the foundation. The mountain remains long after the moment has passed.
Their success might not always make headlines, but it compounds over time. They build trust. They create things that last. And while others come and go with the tides of culture, they remain, steady and strong.
How to Become a Mountain
So how do you ensure your life and work are more like a mountain than a fleeting moment?
- Build practices, not just projects. Projects end. Practices endure. Ask yourself: What daily, weekly, or yearly rhythms anchor my work? What habits strengthen me even when no one sees?
- Value depth over visibility. The number of people who notice you isn’t as important as the depth of the impact you have. Moments thrive on visibility, but mountains are built on substance.
- Think in decades, not days. A moment feels urgent. A mountain requires patience. Ask yourself: What will I be proud to have built twenty years from now? Let that vision guide today’s actions.
- Stay grounded in purpose. If you chase applause, you’ll always be enslaved to it. If you work from purpose, you’ll remain steady regardless of the noise around you.
The Choice Before Us
Every day, we have a choice. We can orient our work around moments—chasing the thrill of attention, grasping for quick wins—or we can build like mountains, steady and unshakable.
The truth is, we all need moments now and then. They energize us, draw new opportunities, and give us confidence. But the real measure of a life well lived is whether those moments rest on the foundation of something deeper, something enduring.
When the spotlight moves on, what will remain of your work? Will it crumble, or will it still stand?
Because in the end, the world doesn’t need more moments.
The world needs more mountains.
