On Protecting What You Build
There was a time when success felt urgent, almost like oxygen. I built quickly, said yes often, and measured my worth by momentum. As long as things were moving, I felt grounded. When they slowed, I felt untethered. I mistook progress for safety and visibility for stability. And for a long time, it worked.
What I did not understand then was how easily success can distort judgment. Not in obvious or dramatic ways, but quietly and over time. You begin to tolerate dynamics you would not otherwise choose. You confuse access with care. You mistake being relied on for being valued. You stay generous past the point of wisdom because stopping feels more dangerous than continuing.
When you are outwardly successful, people assume you can carry more. Often, you can. You carry the work, the expectations, the emotional labor, and the unspoken responsibility to hold everything together. You tell yourself that this is what strength looks like and that discomfort is simply part of ambition. But strength without discernment comes at a cost.
Looking back, I can see that some of my most productive and financially successful seasons were also the ones where my inner life felt thinnest. I was producing and performing, providing and solving. I was capable and admired. I was also increasingly disconnected from myself, overriding my instincts in order to maintain momentum.
That kind of success creates a fog. It dulls your ability to recognize misalignment when it first appears. It encourages you to second guess your own discomfort and to rationalize situations that quietly erode your sense of self. You convince yourself that the unease is temporary, that once you get through the next phase, clarity will return. But, It rarely does.
What eventually shifted was not my ambition, but my tolerance. I began to notice how often I was overriding my own clarity in order to remain agreeable, capable, or indispensable. I began to understand that success, when left unguarded, invites erosion. Not necessarily because people intend harm, but because access is rarely questioned when it is freely given.
There is an important distinction between closure and proximity, between generosity and availability, and between openness and the absence of boundaries. Rebuilding a life you are proud of requires protection. Not defensiveness, but discernment. It requires protecting your time, your energy, and the version of yourself that emerged after everything cracked open and you finally saw clearly.
Success now feels quieter and far more deliberate. It is less about acceleration and more about congruence. It is measured by whether the life I am building feels like mine when no one is watching, and whether it can sustain me without demanding constant self sacrifice.
I am no longer interested in success that requires me to abandon myself. Whatever comes next has to be livable, not just impressive. It has to honor the clarity that came from losing what no longer fit and the discipline it takes to protect what remains. This is not about chasing more. It is about building something that does not ask me to disappear in order to survive.
More in my book: The Power of Reinvention 🤍
