What I Thought Success Had to Look Like

For a long time, I thought I knew what success meant.
It looked like a packed calendar. A big title. Constant motion.
Being the one people counted on—at work, at home, in every room I entered.
Being the one who had it together.

I knew how to play that role. I was good at it.
I built a career that looked impressive from the outside, led teams I genuinely cared about, and made an impact that mattered.
And honestly? A lot of it was great.
The wins, the challenges, the people—I poured my whole self into it because I loved what I was building.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped asking myself if it still fit.

I kept chasing the next thing. The next goal. The next version of “more.”
Because that’s what I thought success required.
And because slowing down felt like giving up.

What I didn’t realize—until everything caught up with me—was just how much invisible work I had woven into the fabric of my days.

The Slack messages I answered at 10 PM because “it would just take a second.”
The projects I took on because I could see the solution so clearly.
The way I anticipated needs before they were even spoken.

At work, I became the go-to person.
At home, I became the one who remembered everything, planned everything, managed everything.

These weren’t conscious choices.
They were patterns—formed slowly and silently—until they became expectations.
Mine and everyone else’s.

I called it being helpful.
Being reliable.
Being good at what I do.

But what I was really doing was building a version of success that didn’t have room for rest.
Or space to breathe.
Or permission to say, “Actually, I need a minute.”

The fatigue I called “normal.”
The Sunday dread I laughed off.
The sense that if I stopped, everything might fall apart—because I had made myself essential to everything.

And when I finally did stop—when I had to—I didn’t know who I was without the role.
Without the rush.
Without the constant sense that I was always achieving, always contributing, always on.

That’s what cracked me open.

I had spent years building a version of success that looked impressive but felt exhausting.
Where my worth was tied to my productivity.
Where my identity was inseparable from my output.

Success now looks different.

Spacious mornings.
Saying yes only when I mean it.
Letting silence be enough.
Resting without guilt.
Creating something that feels like home—not just work.
Remembering that my value doesn’t live in my inbox.

I still catch myself.

Jumping in too fast.
Saying yes too quickly.
Taking on what isn’t mine.

But I don’t stay there long.

Because I know what it costs now.

And I’d rather feel aligned than impressive.
I’d rather be present than productive.
I’d rather live my life than perform it.

What about you?
What old definition of success are you ready to let go of?
What does thriving look like for you now?

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