The Measure of Success

I used to think success had a shape.

It wore a suit, carried a laptop bag, and answered emails at midnight.

It lived in glass buildings and boardrooms. It spoke confidently, always had a plan, and never took days off. That’s what I saw on TV, on social media, and from the people everyone admired.

So, I chased that version.

I worked hard, got good grades, and landed a “dream job” at a respected company. I told myself that long hours meant I was dedicated, and burnout was just part of the journey.

In a few years, I was promoted twice. I had a sleek apartment, a new car, and business cards with a title that sounded important. People said I was doing well. Some even called me “an inspiration.”

But something didn’t feel right.

Most days, I woke up tired. Not just physically, but deep-down tired—mentally, emotionally. I was always rushing. Breakfast was coffee. Lunch was at my desk. And dinner? If I was lucky, microwaved leftovers eaten while scrolling through emails.

My weekends disappeared into work, and I started forgetting little things—birthdays, family calls, even what I used to enjoy. Life became a checklist: send reports, attend meetings, update spreadsheets, repeat.

But I told myself this was success. That someday, it would all be worth it.

Until one small moment changed everything.

It was a Tuesday. I was presenting a project to senior management over a video call. My five-year-old nephew was visiting for the day, and I had asked him to play quietly in the next room.

Halfway through my presentation, he burst in holding a drawing he made. “Look! I made this for you!” he said excitedly.

I froze.

I muted the call, apologized quickly, and gently pushed him away. “Not now,” I whispered. His face dropped. He quietly walked out.

He didn’t cry or argue.

He just said, “You’re always busy.”

And he was right.

That sentence echoed in my mind for days.

It made me think of all the things I was missing while chasing something that didn’t even make me happy.

What was I really working for?

Was it the money? The status? The approval of people I barely knew?

I realized I had built a life that looked good on the outside—but felt empty on the inside.

So, I did something I never thought I would.

I stopped.

I took a real break. I turned off work notifications. I deleted apps that kept me tied to the grind. I went on long walks, cooked proper meals, and read books for the first time in years. I sat with silence—and let it speak.

And slowly, I began asking a new question:

What does success actually mean to me?

The answers surprised me.

Success wasn’t about having the best job or the biggest paycheck.

It was:

Waking up without anxiety in my chest.

Having slow mornings with coffee and sunlight.

Helping someone feel heard.

Writing something meaningful.

Laughing with my family.

Saying “no” without guilt.

Feeling at peace, even if the world was rushing.

That was my new definition.

Now, I work fewer hours. I earn less, sure. But I live more.

I started a small writing circle in my town’s library. We meet once a week. People come with poems, stories, journals—or just to sit and listen. There’s no pressure. Just presence.

One older woman said, “I haven’t written in 30 years. This feels like breathing again.”

That moment? That’s success to me now.

Sometimes, people from my past ask if I miss the old life.

They mention the money, the speed, the “big wins.”

I just smile and say, “Not at all.”

Because now I measure success by something different:

Not by what I earn, but by what I feel.

Not by what I own, but by what I give.

Not by how busy I am, but by how present I can be.

Success isn’t a job title.

It’s peace.

It’s joy.

It’s doing work that aligns with your heart.

And sometimes, the real success only begins when you stop chasing the wrong things—and come back home to yourself.