After the Burnout

On changing my definition of achievement

Letting go of my old way of life wasn’t some dramatic act of courage. It was slower than that, and much less glamorous.

What actually had to change was my definition of achievement.

For most of my life, achievement meant external validation. Accolades. Recognition. Impressive credentials. A life that looked exciting and meaningful from the outside. The Princeton PhD. The National Geographic assignments. The kind of résumé that made people’s posture shift slightly when you mentioned it.

Those things gave me a place in the social landscape. They earned respect. They told a clear story about who I was.

And I miss that sometimes.

I miss the recognition. I miss the feeling of being among the best, the most elite. I miss how easy it was to explain myself, to drop a credential into a conversation and watch people immediately understand my value.

But what changed wasn’t my desire to achieve. It was what I counted as an achievement.

At some point, I realized that I had been organizing my life around what I wanted to be known for, instead of the quieter, less tangible questions.

How do people feel around me?
How present can I be?
What energy do I bring into the spaces I enter?
Am I showing up in my most authentic expression?

Those things don’t show up on a résumé.
There are no awards for them.
No clear milestones, no external applause.

But they shape the texture of a life far more than any credential ever could.

That shift didn’t feel noble or enlightened at the time. It felt like stepping into the unknown.

If I wasn’t a photographer, who was I?
If I wasn’t achieving something impressive, did I still matter?

The old version of me was terrified of disappearing into irrelevance.

Even now, I still feel the pull of that old identity. It shows up when I see photographer friends winning awards or landing big publications. It shows up when I think about building this new career as a coach, and notice the familiar urge to prove myself.

That voice didn’t disappear. It just isn’t running the whole show anymore.

These days, my life is slower and quieter. I travel much less. I have a steady partner, a small family rhythm, slow mornings, and long stretches of unstructured time. A good day now often feels calm, even a little boring, with small sparks of joy scattered through it.

There isn’t the same constant tension in my chest. And when I feel it creeping back in, I try to pay attention.

For most of my life, I was asking: What do I want to be known as?
Now I’m asking: How do I want to be in the world?

The answers are usually simple.
Be kind.
Be present.
Tell the truth.
Move slowly enough to feel your own life.

None of that looks particularly impressive from the outside.

But there is more peace.
More space.
A sense of being rooted in my own life, instead of constantly reaching for the next one.

The younger version of me would have been afraid of disappearing into irrelevance. What would surprise her is how much joy lives in the quiet parts of the day.

I still feel the old pull toward striving, toward recognition, toward the familiar rhythm of achievement. But now, when that voice shows up, I don’t fight it. I recognize it. I welcome it like an old friend. And then, gently, I return to the present moment.

Not to become someone impressive.
Not to secure my place in the world.

Just to live a life that feels like home.