Success. Everyone wants it, craves it. I am no different from the flock of sheep; I want to be great so badly. I want to be good at what I do, even though I don’t quite know what it is yet. Best-selling author? The next (wannabe) Gordon Ramsay? Who the hell knows, I simply must be the best. 

From crocheting to singing and playing the harmonica, I attempted to find my special talent, the talent that no one else could be half as good at. Alas, I have the attention span of a hamster and the patience of a squirrel. Not a great combo. 

Besides being naturally ambitious, my family also plays a big role in my drive to achieve this goal. As the child of immigrant parents who built a home and raised a family through sheer determination, I have no excuse to fall short. If not for myself, I strive for success at least for them.

Now, I know this isn’t good for my mental health, but I just can't help it. This self-destructive flaw of wanting to live this superficial yet ideal life has been extensively fueled by social media envy. Seeing successful people flooding your for-you page daily or infesting your Insta feed, you can’t do anything but painfully grit your teeth and say “You know what? GOOD FOR THEM!!” (not). 

So, where do we go from here? Do I, option A, continue to go down this merciless road of insecurity and envy, or, option B, find pleasure in any lifestyle I choose to live? Obviously, the latter seems like the best (and arguably the healthiest) mindset to have. However, realistically, the human mind is hard to please, and to say you wouldn’t rather live anyone else’s life would be a lie. 

Sometimes, I don’t know if I’m really trying to make something of myself or if I’m really just trying to prove someone wrong. We’ve all had our enemies, right? In my case, there’s no one I want to prove more wrong than myself. I have fallen victim to the baiting thoughts in my head. 

I was a kid with dreams. Knowing that other people achieved theirs and I’m nowhere near a particle of success, it’s a burning-like feeling that erupts in my chest. This will either destroy any chance at happiness I will experience in life, or end up being a lesson well learned. 

But maybe, just maybe, success isn’t a destination—it’s a moving target, constantly shifting with time and experience. Maybe it’s not about proving anyone wrong, not even myself, but about proving that I can keep going, even when the path is unclear.

I may not have found my “thing” yet, but that doesn’t mean I won’t. And maybe success isn’t about being the best at something no one else can do—it’s about becoming someone I’m proud of, even if that person is still a work in progress.