I wasted 10 years chasing success—here’s why it left me emptier than ever

I used to think success would fix everything — self-worth, belonging, even the anxious thrum under my ribs. So I stacked promotions, raises, and LinkedIn milestones like sandbags against uncertainty.

For a while, the strategy worked. New title, new high. Bigger bonus, bigger buzz. Then the buzz wore off faster each time. I’d open my laptop to a full calendar and feel… blank.

I didn’t hate my work; I just couldn’t feel myself in it anymore. I knew how to hit OKRs and polish board decks. I didn’t know how to answer the quieter questions: What do I value? What do I want to contribute? Who am I when no one’s clapping?

It took me a decade of chasing the next rung to realize I wasn’t climbing toward anything real. I was climbing away from myself.

I confused success with safety

When you grow up believing stability is the highest virtue, “safe” can masquerade as “right.” I chose the prestige path because it seemed bulletproof: respected firm, measurable wins, clean story. Underneath, my nervous system was bargaining for certainty.

As noted by Rudá Iandê, “We live immersed in an ocean of stories, from the collective narratives that shape our societies to the personal tales that define our sense of self.” I’d absorbed a story that sounded noble but kept me numb: If I achieve enough, I’ll finally be okay.

The trouble? Safety built on external approval is never safe. One reorg, one market turn, and your identity wobbles. Real safety has a different texture — it comes from skills you trust, values you live, and relationships that hold even when your title changes.

I didn’t learn that in a performance review. I learned it the first time I let a project go that looked impressive and chose one that felt honest.

Outcomes without meaning feel hollow

There’s a moment after the confetti settles when you expect to feel different and… you don’t. I hit multiple “somedays” — the compensation band, the role scope, the panel invite — and felt an unexpected quiet afterward. Not peace. Just emptiness.

Why? Because the result wasn’t tied to meaning. I was optimizing for optics: polished metrics, tidy dashboards, evidence I mattered. The human brain loves novelty and reward, but it habituates quickly. If the work isn’t tethered to purpose, every win is a sugar rush.

I had to ask harder questions: Who benefits from this outcome? Would I do this if no one knew? Does the process grow my capacity to serve in ways I care about?

When I started measuring success against those questions, fewer things qualified. The ones that did, though, left a steady warmth instead of a fleeting high. Progress felt like belonging, not performing.

Perfection stole the joy

Perfection sounds like excellence’s cousin, but it’s really fear in a nice outfit. I spent years sanding edges, over-prepping, and delaying launches to avoid criticism. The work looked immaculate. I felt threadbare.

Research from the University of Ottawa makes a sharp distinction between perfectionism and what they call excellencism.

While perfectionists are haunted by fear of failure and often experience higher stress and dissatisfaction, excellencists pursue high standards flexibly—and enjoy greater life satisfaction, progress, and mental well‑being.

The moment I let “good enough for learning” replace “flawless or nothing,” my energy returned. I shipped drafts earlier. I asked for feedback sooner. I noticed how much creativity blooms when it doesn’t have to audition.

Perfection is expensive; it taxes curiosity, relationships, and courage. Excellence, on the other hand, is generous — it invites iteration, collaboration, and play. If you’re secretly exhausted by your own standards, that’s data. Not a failing. A message.

Applause became the metric

Here’s a confronting question I had to ask myself: Did I want to be effective, or did I want to be admired? The honest answer for a long time was “both,” with admiration in the driver’s seat.

I dressed my people-pleasing up as professionalism — the yeses, the “no problem” replies at 9:47 p.m., the elegant decks that masked a frayed bandwidth. It looked impressive. It felt empty because the stakes weren’t mine.

As Rudá notes, “Their happiness is their responsibility, not yours.” That line hit me right between the shoulder blades.

I started separating deliverables from devotion. I could deliver quality without donating my nervous system. I could care without caretaking. The applause dimmed when I stopped overfunctioning, but my integrity got louder. Eventually, so did my impact — because I was saying yes to the work that actually needed me.

My body knew before my mind did

In spreadsheets, I could justify everything. In my body, I couldn’t hide. Tight jaw before “important” meetings. Afternoon headaches after “quick syncs.” The Sunday heart flutter that signaled dread, not excitement. I chalked it up to being “busy.” It was information.

Trail running taught me to listen. On the trail, your body gives real-time feedback — pace, breath, terrain. Ignore it and you trip. Honor it and you find a rhythm. The same applies to life. Our bodies speak in sensations: heaviness, constriction, ease, expansion.

When I began to track those signals, patterns emerged. The work that lit me up had three qualities: service, teaching, and making complex ideas feel human.

That’s also when writing started to make sense. The more I honored those signals, the less I needed adrenaline to push me through the day. My calendar didn’t change overnight, but my choices did.

What I call success now

I still care about goals. I just care more about alignment. Here’s my simple test for success now: Is this honest? Is it useful? Is it kind to my future self?

I’ve mentioned Rudá Iandê’s book Laughing in the Face of Chaos before; the book inspired me to question the programming I’d inherited and to trust the intelligence of my emotions.

One line I keep on a sticky note: “You have both the right and responsibility to explore and try until you know yourself deeply.” That’s the opposite of chasing someone else’s finish line.

Practically, it looks like fewer projects, clearer boundaries, and more time making, not proving. It looks like measuring a week by who I helped and what I learned, not by how busy I felt. It looks like building a life I don’t have to escape from — even on Mondays.

How I started to feel full again

I didn’t blow up my life. I made smaller, braver swaps:

I traded “What do they expect?” for “What do I stand for?” I replaced prove-it projects with build-it projects. I shifted one meeting-heavy afternoon into deep work. I said no to work that was shiny but misaligned and yes to work that was quieter but meaningful. I let relationships recalibrate around my boundaries.

I also stopped arguing with my emotions. Anxiety stopped being an enemy and became a messenger: Something needs attention. Rest. Support. Clarity. Often, the fix wasn’t heroic.

Psychologists call this cognitive reappraisal—reframing how you interpret your emotions so they guide rather than derail you. Studies show it consistently buffers stress and anxiety, offering a powerful way to reduce negative outcomes and support well-being.

Sometimes the fix was just a walk, a conversation, or choosing a truer yes. Over time, those tiny acts rebuilt trust with myself—and strangely, that’s when opportunities that actually fit began to show up.

Why the emptiness was the teacher I needed

I used to resent the hollowness that followed victories. Now I see it as a compass. Emptiness says: the vessel looks right, but it’s not holding what you need. If you feel it, you’re not broken. You’re being redirected.

And here’s the surprising grace: when I stopped chasing success as a cure-all, I started experiencing more of what I wanted success for in the first place — steadiness, connection, creative flow. Not because I “won.” Because I aligned.

As we keep growing, we’ll disappoint people, change our minds, and try new paths. That’s not failure; that’s aliveness. Success, to me now, is the privilege of spending my energy on what I believe in, with people I respect, in a way that lets me sleep well.

Outro

If you’re running hard and feeling nothing, that feeling is data. Pause. Ask your quieter questions. Notice what your body says before your brain makes a slide about it. Choose one small, truer swap this week and see what shifts.

The title on your business card is a chapter header, not your biography. The emptiness you’re worried about isn’t a verdict — it’s an invitation. And if you want a nudge to examine the stories you’ve inherited, I’ll gently recommend Rudá Iandê’s Laughing in the Face of Chaos again.

His insights gave me language for what my body already knew: success without self is a beautiful shell. Fill it with meaning, and the metrics will take care of themselves.