Unlearning What I Thought Success Meant

When I was ten years old, I stood on stage at a school assembly and announced to the crowd, “I want to be a lawyer when I grow up.” The crowd clapped politely, and my teacher patted me on the back afterward, telling me I had a bright future. That sentence would follow me through most of my adolescence, not because it was my dream—but because it sounded like success.

Lawyer. Doctor. Engineer. Those were the golden careers, the ones that made people nod approvingly at family dinners and tell your parents, “Well done.” At home, success meant stability. It meant a job with benefits. It meant being someone whose title earned respect when introduced.

So, I followed the script. Good grades. Honor roll. Volunteer work. I got into a reputable university. I checked every box. On paper, I was thriving.

But inside, something was unraveling.

By the time I was in my third year of pre-law, I started waking up with a heavy weight in my chest. My days were filled with readings and debates that left me feeling more drained than inspired. The passion I thought would come with this path—the fire everyone said I’d feel when I was pursuing a "real" career—never arrived.

I pushed through. I told myself it was just burnout. That I was too close to the finish line to stop. That once I had the degree, the job, the salary, then I’d feel fulfilled.

Spoiler: I didn’t.

After graduating, I landed a junior legal assistant role at a firm downtown. From the outside, it was everything I had worked for: a professional title, a corporate badge, a desk with my name on it. I wore suits, attended meetings, updated spreadsheets, and reviewed legal documents that made my eyes glaze over.

I remember one day in particular—six months into the job—when I stayed late to finish a stack of case notes. Everyone else had left. The office was dark except for my desk lamp. I looked at the notes, at the emails piling up, at the unopened lunch in the corner—and I broke down.

Not because the job was hard.

But because I realized I had spent the last 15 years chasing a version of success that was never mine.

We rarely talk about what it feels like to “make it” and still feel empty.

I had done everything right. And yet I felt like a stranger in my own life.

That night, I went home and sat in silence. No TV. No music. Just me and my thoughts. And a terrifying question:

If this isn’t success, then what is?

Over the next few weeks, I started peeling back the layers. I asked myself what I loved doing—not because it would look good on a résumé, but because it made me feel alive. And quietly, a memory came back:

Writing.

As a child, I used to fill notebooks with stories, poems, thoughts about the world. I would stay up late writing by flashlight under the covers, not because anyone told me to, but because I needed to.

But somewhere along the way, I was told it wasn’t practical. That “writers don’t make money.” That dreams like that were just hobbies, not careers.

So I buried it.

Until now.

I started writing again. Just a little at first. A journal entry here, a short blog post there. And for the first time in years, something shifted. The heaviness began to lift. I felt connected to myself in a way that no title or paycheck ever gave me.

It wasn’t easy.

I still had to go to work. I still had bills to pay. I didn’t quit my job in some dramatic fashion. But I started reclaiming pieces of myself.

And then, one day, I wrote a personal essay and submitted it to an online platform. It got published. Then another. People messaged me saying my words made them feel seen.

And that’s when I knew: Success isn’t about how others define you. It’s about whether you can look in the mirror and recognize yourself.

A year later, I transitioned into a part-time legal consultant role and gave myself more space to write. Today, I work freelance, write consistently, and teach creative writing workshops on the side. I make less money than I did in the corporate world. I don’t wear a suit to work. But I’ve never felt more successful.

Because now, success means waking up without dread. It means doing work that aligns with who I am. It means knowing that I didn’t betray myself to earn anyone else’s approval.

Moral of the Story:

We grow up surrounded by a single image of success—one shaped by money, status, and societal validation. But chasing a dream that isn’t yours will always leave you empty, no matter how “successful” you become.

Real success is personal. It’s quiet. It’s honest. It feels like peace.

It’s okay to unlearn what you were taught.

It’s okay to change your path.

It’s okay to start over—especially when it leads you back to yourself.

So if you’re stuck chasing someone else’s version of success, ask yourself:

What would success look like if no one else had to approve of it?

The answer might just change your life.