Illusions I Clung to About Success

For years, I convinced myself I was doing it for my family.

That every late night, every sacrifice, every moment spent working instead of being present was for them. That one day, they’d look back and understand why I wasn’t there. But the truth is, they never asked for this. They would have traded the ambition, the drive, the so-called security I was building - for time. For me.

I told myself my family understood.

That they got it, that they saw the bigger picture, that they knew why I couldn’t switch off. But they didn’t. Not really. How could they? I barely understood it myself. The constant feeling that I hadn't done enough, the weight of my own expectations, the restless need to keep pushing. They tried to support me, but I was always half-there, always waiting for the next milestone to justify stepping back.

I told myself it would stop after I hit that one big goal.

That once I reached that number, that title, that moment of undeniable success, I’d finally exhale. That I’d slow down. That I’d feel … different. But the goalposts kept moving. The feeling of arrival never came. The chase didn’t end, because it was never about the milestone - it was about the need to chase something.

I told myself I’d make up for lost time.

That the missed birthdays, the forgotten conversations, the times I was physically present but mentally somewhere else - those could be repaid. But time doesn’t work like that. You don’t get to hit pause and pick up where you left off. People move on. And one day, you realize that while you were out there building a future, you were letting the present slip through your fingers.

I told myself that when I finally got there - wherever there was - I wouldn’t be alone.

But success is lonely when you’ve spent your whole life running, and no one could keep up. You assume people will always be there, waiting, understanding. But they have their own lives, their own needs, their own limits to how long they can wait for you to finally show up.

I told myself that money could fix things.

That it would make up for the guilt, that it would fill the gaps, that it would buy me back the things I lost along the way. But money can’t buy time. It can’t buy connection. It can’t buy the feeling of being known and loved, not for what you achieve, but for who you are when you’re doing nothing at all.

I built my life around these illusions. And I was so convincing, I almost believed them. But the truth has a way of creeping in - late at night, in the quiet moments, in the spaces where success feels hollow and you start wondering what it was all for.

I used to think the hardest part was getting there. Now I know the hardest part is stopping long enough to ask yourself if the race is/was even worth running, the way I ran it.