The Quiet Climb

The Quiet Climb

BY [ WAQAR ALI ]

Why real success feels different than you think

The first time I thought I was “successful,” I was 17 and holding a plastic trophy. It was from a regional debate competition—gold-colored, shiny, and light enough to carry in one hand. Everyone clapped. My parents took photos. I smiled like my face was made of porcelain.

But when I got home, I set the trophy on my desk and stared at it for a long time. It looked smaller without the stage lights. Lighter, too. Almost like a toy. I remember thinking, Is this it? Is this what success feels like?

That was my first lesson: success isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s so quiet you can barely hear it over your own thoughts.

The myth of the finish line

When you’re younger, success is packaged for you in neat, predictable shapes—grades, trophies, certificates. There’s always a moment when someone hands you something and says, “Congratulations.”

But the older you get, the messier it becomes. There’s no single finish line. Sometimes there’s no applause. And often, the work that makes the biggest difference in your life is invisible to everyone else.

I learned this during my first real job after university. It wasn’t glamorous—I was an assistant at a small marketing agency. My desk was wedged between the photocopier and a storage closet. The kind of space where you could smell ink and cardboard all day.

I remember one afternoon when the CEO stopped by. She asked for a report I’d spent hours building—data no one else had wanted to touch because it was boring and technical. She flipped through it, nodded, and said, “This is exactly what we needed.”

She walked away. No trophy. No applause. Just those words.

And yet, I felt something shift. That was success, too.

The mountain no one sees

We love to tell success stories like they’re single moments—She got promoted. He won the award. They launched the business.

But behind every “moment” is a long, quiet climb. Mine happened over the course of five years, in early mornings and late nights, in saying yes to projects I didn’t fully understand, in making mistakes that kept me awake at 3 a.m.

There were days I wanted to quit, days I felt invisible. But each small skill I learned was like placing a rock under my foot, building a path upward.

The thing about climbing a mountain is that the view changes so gradually you barely notice. Then one day, you look down and realize you’re standing higher than you ever thought you could.

The cost no one talks about

Here’s the part of success people rarely mention: you can’t carry everything with you.

To reach certain goals, I had to leave things behind—weekends, friendships, hobbies. I missed birthdays. I skipped trips. I said “I can’t” more than I said “I’d love to.”

At first, I told myself it was temporary. But temporary has a way of stretching until you forget what permanent looks like.

I don’t regret the sacrifices—they shaped me. But I wish I’d learned sooner that success is a poor substitute for a balanced life. You can’t drink from a trophy, and you can’t sleep under a framed certificate.

The day it felt real

The strangest thing about success is that it often feels real on an ordinary day.

For me, it was a Tuesday morning. I was in a meeting with a client I’d been chasing for months. I presented our proposal, they nodded, and said, “Let’s do it.”

I left the room and stepped outside. The air was cool, the street was noisy, people rushed past. No one knew or cared what had just happened. But I did.

I realized then that success is less about recognition and more about alignment—when your effort, your skill, and your values meet in the same moment.

Redefining the word

If you had asked me at 17 what success looked like, I’d have said, “Winning. Being the best. Standing on stage.”

If you ask me now, I’ll say:

Waking up and looking forward to the day.

Doing work that matters to you.

Having enough time to spend with people you love.

Feeling at peace with where you are, even if you’re still climbing.

I still set goals. I still chase big projects. But I’ve stopped thinking of success as a single peak. It’s more like a range of mountains—some tall, some small, some you climb for the view, others just for the joy of walking.

One last thing

The plastic trophy from my teenage years still sits on my bookshelf. It’s dusty now. I don’t keep it because it proves anything. I keep it because it reminds me of that night—the applause, the stage lights, the beginning of a question I’m still answering: What does success mean to me?

If there’s one truth I’ve learned, it’s this:

Success isn’t just about reaching something. It’s about becoming someone along the way.