thoughts about after success

16-Mar-2025

Several years ago, I committed myself to a long-term goal. As an incoming college freshman, such extended planning was unfamiliar territory; but my limited experiences had taught me that meandering through life without precise direction was precarious, so I planned carefully. To my chagrin, as I learned more and as circumstances evolved, the requirements for success shifted. I sacrificed leisure. I lost friends. Still, I remained committed and recently, I succeeded. From all those years ago, I had called my shot, and—as intended—it landed. Yet, as the adrenaline fades and obligatory congratulations-es subside, an unexpected hollowness surfaces.

What does the mountaineer do upon reaching the summit? Perhaps he takes a photo to share/preserve the memory, or maybe he simply savors the moment. In cinema, this often serves as the final scene—after a long and arduous journey, our hero has triumphed. We wouldn’t watch his descent; that would be anticlimactic. But this is real life, and no mountaineer can sit atop the peak forever. Duties call, and he must respond. Thus, he descends.

As I’ve hiked down from my proverbial mountain, I have found life difficult. For so long, the golden rays of an unreachable summit powered my march forward. Now, I find myself adrift, heading into an unfamiliar valley. Without objectives, I am dissatisfied. I spend my days relaxing but end them chiding myself to sleep—promising to “do better,” and inventing fictions to address the following morning.

“What if my ‘success’ were a ploy? What would I do if my failure is assured?” And so, I drive myself to fabricate obligations, to labor without purpose.¹

Paradoxically, these lies induce anxiety, but I whisper them as lullabies to my restless mind. I miss the climb. The truth is, I now descend a gentle slope while imagining I scale jagged peaks. This is unsustainable. One cannot meaningfully thrive with delusion;² our telos rejects it.

I do miss the climb, but I will not prolong this illusion. In the future, there will be another mountain, but first I must fully descend this one. The valley between peaks is not merely a transition—it is terrain with its own wisdom to offer that cannot be appreciated when I remain fixated on fictional peaks.

I now ask, why must I always climb? Why can I not enjoy this moment? It is difficult to surrender the familiar strain of ambition, but while the climb taught me persistence; the descent can teach me presence. There is wisdom in stillness that cannot be found in motion—reflections that only appear in calm waters.

Those who truly understand growth know that each period of rest is worthy of its own attention. My challenge now is not to manufacture another goal prematurely, but to navigate this interval with the same intention I brought to my previous pursuit. The metrics of success that drove me forward offer no guidance here. Perhaps this is the challenge I’ve been avoiding. To recognize that this, too, is part of the journey—not an epilogue, but a vital chapter.