FG Trade Latin/Getty Images
When I was 7, I was identified as a "gifted kid." That label of promised potential followed me from elementary school enrichment programs to high school AP classes, eventually earning me a degree from a top university.
It's no surprise that I measured my worth in numbers and letters as (mostly) objective indicators of success. Everyone knows what a 4.0 GPA or an A+ means. From an early age, I knew that I wanted those high marks more than anything.
My constant focus on getting the grade, earning the leadership title, and landing the job didn't come without sacrifice. I said no to social engagements. I treated sleep like it was optional. The gym? Forget it. I figured that when I landed my dream job postgrad, it would all feel worth it. Finally, I would have achieved the ultimate goal.
But when I started my first "real" job, I found myself wondering, "Now what?" For the first time in my life, the next step wasn't obvious— talk about a quarter-life crisis. I knew I had to learn how to measure success in this new environment.
Starting my postgrad job meant accepting feedback on an arbitrary scale—one that I quickly learned is often affected by relationships, tenures, and titles.
My GPA didn't matter anymore, and neither did my obnoxious, eight-line-long college email signature. All of those club memberships and academic affiliations disappeared from relevance. I felt bitter at first. After all, I had worked so hard, and none of it seemed to matter.
But then I reframed my stance: None of it mattered — none of the little things, at least. My not-so-stellar neuroscience grade? Sleeping through three of my 8 a.m. poetry classes in a semester? Submitting a late Spanish essay? None of it prevented me from pursuing my goals.
This realization was incredibly freeing. Now, I know that small mistakes don't outweigh consistency. I don't have to measure my self-worth in the number of corrections on a paper or how many extracurriculars I participate in. I get to decide what success means to me. I can choose what to pursue and when to switch paths. Letting go of the numbers that once defined me meant that I was no longer held to someone else's idea of "good enough."
My first professional projects came with a harsh learning curve. What would have earned me an "A" in my college classes was met with a flurry of edits and comments.
At first, I was upset with my performance. I felt like I had failed. I mentioned my frustrations in passing to a much more experienced colleague, and he gave me some wonderful advice: "Separate your ego from your work," he said, "and you will be amazed at how quickly you improve."
As a creative working in tech, I had to get used to receiving feedback from all kinds of stakeholders. I don't just write essays for a professor anymore. I write blogs and social media posts that are read by customers, partners, and employees. Sometimes, this means my work is reviewed by 20 people or more before it's approved. That doesn't leave a lot of room for an unearned ego.
Success might mean getting promoted — or it might not. Maybe it means discovering a new passion outside work. It might look like a commitment to health, exploring new places, or visiting friends and family. Achieving these goals might not make me better at my job, but I know they will make me a better person, friend, and partner.
My new goals might look hazy compared to old ones, and they will most likely shift as I progress in my career. I wish I had known that life is less structured after school and less linear, too.
Still, in the modern world of social media highlight reels, it can be difficult not to compare myself to my peers. Some days, I feel left out for not pursuing graduate school, and sometimes, I wonder if I picked the right college or even the right city.
Despite all this uncertainty, I'm grateful for one thing I do know: Leading a satisfying life requires redefining success at different stages. Shifting my goals doesn't make me a failure; it makes me human.
