The Journey from consumer to creator

Arham’s evenings always followed the same rhythm. After a long day at his data entry job, he would collapse onto his bed, unlock his phone, and let the world scroll past his eyes. Endless reels, memes, and short videos. His thumb moved mechanically—up, up, up—like a tiny gear in a giant machine of consumption.

He laughed at jokes, liked motivational clips, and nodded along to success stories. Yet when he placed his phone aside, a strange emptiness settled in his chest. It was as though he had eaten a whole plate of food without truly tasting a single bite.

For months, he told himself that he was just “relaxing,” but deep inside, he knew he was trapped. He admired creators—the vloggers who built empires, the writers whose words spread like wildfire, the designers who made art with pixels. But admiration soon turned into a silent envy. “Why can’t I do something like that?” he wondered. Then, almost instantly, another thought shut the door: Because you’re just a consumer. Not a creator.

The turning point came unexpectedly. One Saturday morning, as Arham sipped tea in the cramped living room of his small Rawalpindi apartment, his younger cousin barged in with excitement. “Bhai! Look at this!” He shoved his phone into Arham’s hands.

On the screen was a motivational post—an image with a quote about success. The caption read: ‘Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard.’

Arham recognized the words immediately.It was the same quote he had shared on his own Facebook years ago. But the difference was staggering: his old post had gotten maybe ten likes, while this page had thousands of shares.

Something clicked. It wasn’t the words that made the page successful—it was the consistency, the design, the effort behind building an audience. The person running that page wasn’t necessarily more talented. They had just chosen to create instead of endlessly consume.

That night, Arham tossed in bed, his mind restless. The thought grew louder: What if I try? What if I move from consumer to creator?

He didn’t have expensive gadgets or a fancy laptop. All he had was his old Android phone and an unstable internet connection. But he knew he had one resource people often ignored—his words.

He started small. Instead of aimlessly scrolling, he gave himself a challenge: write one short post a day. Not copied quotes, not recycled memes—his own thoughts.

The first attempt was clumsy. He wrote:
“We spend our days waiting for inspiration, not realizing inspiration comes when we start.”

He posted it on his Facebook. It got three likes—two from close friends and one from his cousin. Embarrassment pricked his pride. “Is this even worth it?” he muttered. But then he remembered: every creator he admired once stood where he stood now—at the bottom.

He posted again the next day. And the next. Slowly, the fear of judgment faded. The more he created, the lighter he felt. For the first time, his phone wasn’t just a tool for consumption; it was a tool for contribution.

Weeks passed, and his posts rarely crossed ten likes. Friends teased him:
“Arham has become a philosopher now!”
“Bro, no one reads these long paragraphs. Make reels if you want attention.”

Their laughter stung. Doubt returned, whispering in his ear: You’re wasting time. Nobody cares.

One night, he almost gave up. He stared at the blank note on his phone and thought of deleting everything he had written. Just as his finger hovered over the delete button, a notification popped up.

It was a private message from a stranger:
“Salam Arham bhai, I just wanted to say your words really helped me today. I was feeling low, but your post gave me hope. Please don’t stop writing.”

Arham froze. His eyes watered. This—this was why creators existed. Not for numbers, not for fame, but for impact. Even if one person found light in his words, wasn’t that enough reason to continue?

Encouraged, Arham became curious about how successful creators worked. Instead of scrolling mindlessly, he began studying. He watched tutorials on content writing, read blogs on personal branding, and explored platforms beyond Facebook.

He discovered Vocal Media, a place where writers shared long-form stories. The idea thrilled him: here was a chance to write more deeply, to move beyond short posts. But when he opened the submission page, he froze. “Who will read this? I’m just an amateur.”

Still, he reminded himself of his promise: a consumer waits, a creator acts.

He wrote his first article: “The Cost of Endless Scrolling.” The grammar wasn’t perfect, the structure wobbled, but it was his. He hit publish with trembling fingers.

Days later, when he checked back, he saw the article had been read by people he didn’t even know. A few had left comments, appreciating his honesty. For the first time, strangers were connecting with his words. It was a small victory—but it felt like climbing a mountain.

With new confidence, Arham set bigger goals. He planned to publish weekly blogs, grow a following, and maybe even earn a little money. But reality was harsh. His next three articles performed poorly. One got almost no reads. Another was rejected for formatting issues. The third, which he thought was his best, was met with silence.

Frustration boiled inside him. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”

He wanted instant results, but creation demanded patience. Consumption was easy—open the phone, and the reward was instant. Creation was slow, painful, and often lonely.

One evening, while walking through a crowded bazaar, he overheard a vendor. The man was selling roasted corn, calling out to strangers tirelessly. Some ignored him, some waved him away, but he kept shouting. Eventually, a customer stopped and bought.

That simple moment struck Arham. This is what creators do. We keep calling out. Some will ignore us, but eventually, someone will listen.

So he shifted his approach. Instead of chasing numbers, he focused on consistency. He treated writing like exercise—small efforts daily, results later. He improved his craft by reading books, analyzing good writers, and editing ruthlessly. Slowly, his articles began to find rhythm.

One day, he published a story titled “When the Last Goodbye Broke My Heart.” It was personal, raw, and filled with emotion. To his surprise, it resonated deeply. The story gathered dozens of comments, readers sharing their own experiences of loss.

That article marked his first breakthrough. For the first time, Arham felt like a true creator. Not because of likes or views, but because he had touched hearts.

Months turned into a year. Arham was no longer the man who scrolled endlessly. His evenings looked different now—scribbling drafts, brainstorming titles, editing paragraphs. His phone, once a portal of distraction, had become a tool of discipline.

Friends noticed the change. “Yaar, you’ve become serious these days.”

Arham smiled. Serious? No. Just purposeful.

The biggest transformation, however, was internal. Consumption had once left him hollow, but creation filled him with meaning. He realized something profound: every time he wrote, he wasn’t just building articles—he was building himself.

One rainy night, Arham sat by his window, typing another blog. The raindrops tapped against the glass, like applause from the heavens. He thought of the boy he used to be—the passive consumer, endlessly scrolling, envying creators.

Now, he wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t famous. He wasn’t rich. But he had crossed the bridge.

He had become a creator.

And with creation came freedom—the freedom to contribute instead of only consume, the freedom to shape stories instead of just watch them pass, the freedom to leave a trace of himself in the world.

The journey from consumer to creator was not a single leap but a thousand tiny steps—hesitant posts, awkward failures, small victories, and countless moments of doubt. Arham learned that creation isn’t about grand beginnings. It’s about showing up every day, choosing expression over silence, action over hesitation.

And perhaps the greatest truth he discovered was this:
Every consumer has the potential to be a creator. The difference lies in a single decision—whether to keep scrolling, or to start shaping.