I approached my career as a straight path. I chose the first stone in college and followed with a progressive paving, each new stone always intentionally in front of the last.
Growth is a top priority, real or perceived I have to feel like I’m moving forward or I’m unsatisfied. So, I paved and paved one after another moving up along the industry, network, expertise I chose.
I put words around it. A nicely wrapped explanation, an identity I assigned to explain the progress and direction, to make sense of it to myself and others. Both as a directive and a reflection—one that says both why I got here and where I’m going. It was so clear and defined, when I said it to others I mostly believed it. I said it with passion confidence conviction, this is who I am this is what I do where I’m going. Clean and slick, like a script describing a lead character. I did that for a while until an interaction led me to question.
I was sitting with a friend. He asks how I’m doing, what I’ve been working on. I respond. Script. I finish, let him respond. He’s quiet. His body is a backward L, sitting and turned toward me on the couch we’re on. Elbow rests on the seatback, his palm holds a relaxed head. He’s calm and unmoving, watches for a bit as if waiting for something more. I shift questioningly, unsure of how to fill the space. Is that your truth? He asks, or something similar, that’s what I heard. He continues, What if you were a tower of Jenga pieces, you topple yourself down, what would you rebuild?
I retract, pause and think. I review narratives I’ve had for years. The question scares me because I’ve never asked it. Self-reflection my norm, I’m rarely caught off-guard with questions of self. It scares me because I’m not sure the answer is close. I’m not sure the answer would align with where I am and the direction I’m moving. The question scares me the answer scares me more. It could negate the path I’ve built this identity I’ve written. One that shapes my world and how and with whom I interact in it.
He senses my hesitation, sees me tense to the thoughts that form the truth. I watch him after he asks, as I process. His head tilts patiently, lips soften into a warm smile. They’re subtle mannerisms meant to calm me, tell me he knows the weight of it, understands the storm it brewed and invites it to pass.
To answer my mind goes to the feeling. The transcendence I feel in specific points in my life, it’s so clear and consistent I could map the senses give words to how it feels under my skin. It comes from creating. From writing building designing imagining. It comes from novelty and surprise. From interacting with the strange and witnessing the unexpected. It comes from rebellion, shattering norms and defying convention. From awing and being awed. It comes from depth, beauty, and human connection.
I can see the feeling like it has its own shape, color, texture. A scene behind my eyes that plays when I answer. When I answer with what makes me feel alive and what it feels like when I do. I realize the answer isn’t quite where I am. It’s not far but it’s not here.
That was 6 months ago. I remember leaving that couch feeling heavy. The weight of change settled on my shoulders. Change I now knew I needed sat heavy and daunting with all the fear and uncertainty that comes with it. It wasn’t a new feeling, the weight had grown with each new stone paved, each new choice that kept me on the path. The path I designed, one I thought I wanted then kept telling myself I wanted to continue moving ahead.
I needed the question, needed the perspective from an external to make the weight known.
The idea that I could reinvent myself, knock myself down, build anew, was both terrifying and invigorating. Invigorating because it was clear I wasn’t thriving along the one I was on. Terrifying because I worked hard for it, I knew it well. Other directions were dark and murky, none clearly stood out as this is right go there do that. It was both a fear of mis-choosing and a fear of failing.
What’s the alternative? I asked myself.
I’m a thinker. I use narratives, words, definitions, constructs to understand my experiences, decide how I internalize and respond to them. Words are constantly flowing behind my eyes. Growing up, I was often caught looking into the distance in a trance, in a story moving through my head. My mom would touch my shoulder and ask, where are you Kor?
I didn’t really acknowledge this until my mid-20s, I thought everyone functioned that way. Then I met someone who can’t visualize, who sees patterns and shapes if anything, and never dreams in visuals just emotions and senses. I met another who has no internal narrative. Who doesn’t have a silent dialogue running in his head that I know so well myself. I can’t begin to explain or understand how you function without internal words and visuals, I suppose it’s simply another version of human experience. Considering both are amazing humans and high-performing CEOs, I’d posit it may be more of an asset than a flaw.
I had so many narratives. About self, success, money, relationships, happiness, health. When I started meditating, the deeper I went, the clearer these narratives became. Inviting my mind to silence for 30 minutes every morning provided a glaring contrast to the noise going on in there. I realized how loud it was. The narratives became clear I could catch them when they came up, when they’d play in my mind and try to drive my actions.
I started questioning them, asking—Is that true? Can I be absolutely sure that’s true? What if it wasn’t true?
A few of the most invasive ones,
To be successful, I have to work extremely hard as often as possible.
For the highest career upside, I need to stay in SF.
To maintain my freedom, I have to work for myself.
To reach my financial goals, I have to start a tech company.
To be fit, I have to go to the gym every day.
To be healthy, I need to maintain a perfect diet.
To learn and grow, I have to say yes to every opportunity.
To be taken seriously, I have to quiet my femininity.
To impress, I have to be seen as infallible and strong.
To be strong, I must be entirely self-reliant.
To be fulfilled, I have to be externally validated.
For growth, every step must be forward.
My life was driven by words in my head. The idea that there was anything else to go by never occurred to me. That I could listen to my body, sense what felt good and do that. My mind told me what should feel good, and I listened. Often, it didn’t feel good. I think the misalignment was due to where the words came from, where the narratives were born—almost always from externals.
My heroes were CEOs. I incessantly read biographies of founders, executives, inventors, investors. I’m enamored with the idea of building a business from scratch, adding value to millions of people, having a growing team that relies on you. That became my definition of success. I loved reading their stories, I admired where they ended up so I studied how they got there.
I internalized those stories. Each one became a new entry in my database of internal narratives to call on when deciding what actions to take in my life. A life I thought I wanted to mirror theirs in a way.
I still deeply admire founders, still love biographies and reading about their journeys. The difference now is I don’t internalize them, I store them away as interesting stories I learn from but ones that won’t sway or negate my truth.
A new path to self-actualization was sparked from that question on the couch. The first step was seeking to understand my truth. I realized words and narratives weren’t helping me get to it, I looked elsewhere.
I began listening to my body, to what felt good. What made my face beam, goosebumps raise, heart race, tense muscles relax. I leaned into those moments, took note of them and built a new narrative—my truth, driven by myself not externals.
I’m still understanding my truth, I think we always are. When we think we find it, think we’ve dug deep enough to uncover it all, we see there are miles to go and the answer changes along the way.
What’s been fulfilling is discovering that it comes from me, not externals. That success can feel good. And that if it doesn’t, I haven’t reached it.