I was listening to the New Heights podcast recently and Matt Damon was a guest. He said something that stopped me in my tracks:
“You’re all a lesser part of the thing you’re making.”
At first, it sounded almost uncomfortable—like shrinking, like stepping back. But the longer I sat with it, the more it settled into something deeply freeing.
I don’t hear that statement as diminishing.
I hear it as release.
When you’re creating something meaningful—something rooted in truth, service, or love—the work eventually becomes bigger than you. And maybe that’s exactly how you know you’re doing it right.
When the Work Is Bigger Than the Maker
In my own life and work, this rings especially true.
The cards I create, the words I write, the stories I share—none of them are really about me. They’re about the person holding a card at a kitchen table, unsure what to say. The griever who feels seen for the first time in weeks. The friend who wants to show up but doesn’t know how.
I may be the hands that make the thing, but I’m not the center of its purpose.
And honestly?
That realization brings peace.
Because it means I don’t have to control how the work is received. I don’t have to be the hero of the story. I don’t have to carry every outcome on my shoulders.
My role is to show up honestly.
To create with care.
And then—to step back enough to let the work do what it was meant to do.
Writing From This Place Changes Everything
When I write from this mindset, the pressure lifts.
I’m not trying to prove anything.
I’m not trying to perform grief or package healing perfectly.
I’m not trying to be louder than the next voice in the room.
I’m simply offering something real, and trusting it will land where it’s needed.
That’s when the work feels truest.
That’s when it lasts longer than a moment.
That’s when it becomes something people carry with them.
The Quiet Wisdom Inside the Quote
There’s a quiet truth hiding inside that sentence, one that feels especially important right now:
If you’re trying to be the biggest part of what you’re making, you’re probably making something too small.
When the work is rooted in service, legacy, and love, the ego naturally steps aside. Not because you don’t matter—but because the impact does.
You become a steward, not the spotlight.
And that doesn’t erase you.
It expands what’s possible.
Why This Matters in Grief Work (and Life)
In spaces where grief exists, this perspective feels sacred.
Grief doesn’t need fixing.
It doesn’t need marketing.
It doesn’t need to be rushed or shouted.
It needs room.
It needs honesty.
It needs people willing to create from humility rather than urgency.
When I remember that I am only a part—not the whole—I can show up with integrity. I can pivot when something feels off. I can trust the work to carry meaning beyond what I’ll ever see.
And that, to me, feels like the deepest kind of success.
A Gentle Invitation
If you’re creating something—whether it’s a business, a piece of art, a life after loss, or simply a way of showing up more honestly—maybe this idea is worth holding close:
You don’t have to be the biggest part of what you’re making.
You just have to be faithful to it.
The rest will find its way.