The Truth About Success

Wait. What? Yes, tis true – today’s post is a guest contribution by Rebecca Hunter.

Rebecca is highly skilled in the art of Sensophic-Ninjutsu, meaning, she’s one of my behind-the-screens secret weapons for getting thangs done here on Sensophy!

We’ve been connecting via email and Skype for the last 6ish months and had a heartfelt meetup over (mostly) vegan-friendly food in Manchester (UK) when I was there last month.

The lady oozes with awe when pondering and conversing about the possibilities that exist for our lives. I bet you do the same. 🙂

Enjoy her post… (+ drop a comment below to let us know *your* Truth About Success!)

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Nothing worth having in this world comes easy.

Ain’t that the truth?

Slave away, nose to the grindstone, punch the clock, pay your dues, cry blood, sweat and tears. Then, if you’re lucky, reach the shiny heights of the Holy Grail. You get the house, the car, the cash, the holidays, the 3D TV, the red-soled shoes…

You know the score.

But that story is old.

Jacob recently riffed about a well-worn equation we all recognise:

success = happiness

We know that’s not right. Jacob turned that theory inside out and on its head, and he pretty much took care of the happiness side of the equation.

I’m about to chew over the other side of it… Success.

A pretty loaded word. And one that’s been at the back of my mind for a lifetime.

It’s what we all want, isn’t it? That’s why we go after the house, the car, the cash, the holidays, the 3D TV and the red-soled shoes in the first place. They’re the proof.

stuff = success

But what lies behind the pursuit? For me, it was always about perception. Were my parents proud of me? Did my friends like me? Did *other people* think I’d made it?

I dressed (and lived) to impress. Can you blame me? We’re scrutinised according to our paychecks and the cars we drive. Gadgets and bling affirm our arrival. In part, I blame pop culture. I’m a bit of a hip-hop head, but the whole ‘bangin’ bitches on a bed of money’ thing is getting tired.

But it’s not just about splashing cash. The issue of your success can be settled with one little sentence. It’s the one you utter when someone asks you this question: “What do you do for a living?” The ideal answer? White collar all the way. No doubt about it.

I wanted my own white collar status to shout about. I wanted to make my parents’ eyes light up when they boasted about me. I wanted people to be impressed, dammit. And the only way I knew of doing that was to follow the traditionally trodden trail that everyone before me had become intimate with. I needed good grades, a university degree, and a ‘proper’ job. One that possibly involved carrying a briefcase full of important-looking papers, and definitely meant dedicating long hours to the cause.

And you know something? I only went and got ‘em.

In fact, I didn’t just get them. I was good at them. I’d made it.

…But you know this story doesn’t stop there.

I might have been ‘on track’ in the eyes of the rest of the world, but inside I was dying a slow and painful death. I felt a kindred connection with those spiritless zombies in Dawn of the Dead. Shuffling on auto-pilot, eyes glazed over, oblivious to intuition and all objection.

It was my overwhelming obsession with my own mortality that triggered the end of the beginning for me. The start of a new chapter.

Yep, it sounds morbid as hell, but it happened. I was training to be a teacher at the time, and I couldn’t even sit down to read a story with a group of fresh-faced five-year-olds without thinking, “We’re all gonna be dead one day. Everyone sitting on this carpet is eventually going to die.” I got hysterical, screamed inexplicably at my boyfriend (who only ever wanted to help), and used up more pillows than I could count by smearing my mascara-smudged cheeks on them, day after day.  In the end, I found myself inexplicably perched in front of a condescendingly smiley therapist, trying in vain to keep my anguish in check and stop it from tumbling right out of my mouth. I could tell that she didn’t get it.

Now I recognise that I was so terrified of death because I wasn’t really living. And it scared the crap out of me. But that awareness has been marinating for a loooong time. Back then, I was oblivious. It was all about baby steps. And step number one was a book that my boyfriend deemed a must-read. It was Stop Thinking, Start Living by Richard Carlson. Way more helpful than that therapist ever was. It was the first time I’d been introduced to the wacky idea that I *had* a mind, but I *wasn’t* my mind. My thoughts didn’t control me. I controlled them. Woah.

I mean, seriously. This stuff should be taught in schools, embedded at the curriculum’s core.

My eyes were wide open. The zombie I’d become started to perish, slowly but surely, and I began really paying attention to what was going on inside. How did I want to feel? How didn’t I want to feel? Which situations triggered my panic? There was a lot that wasn’t right.

I didn’t get out of teaching just yet. In fact, I committed another two and a half years to the profession before I worked up the nerve to walk away. (I’d landed myself a pretty cushy role straight out of university. If I’d wanted to be, I’d have been set for life.)

But the cogs in my mind kept whirring, and I kept willing myself to make the move. It was those outside expectations that kept me stuck for that much longer. Remember what I said? It’s always been about perception.

While putting on my bravest face for the world by day, I dived headfirst into the pool of personal development by night, soaking up blogs and books like a fervent sponge. Before long, I became beyond frustrated with the world as I saw it. I wanted to shake everyone ‘til their teeth rattled in their heads and yell at them for not seeing past the ends of their noses. It was as if I finally understood life and its endless possibilities, and yet I still felt like the one who wasn’t living in the ‘real’ world. I was different. Broken. Delusional.

Wasn’t I?

Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted more, and knew that more was possible.

I was successful in every stale sense of the word, but I was miserable. It didn’t feel like the celebration-worthy sensation of success that I’d been led to believe was waiting for me at the end of the road. The pain of living a life that looked impressive on paper but in reality was tearing me apart became too much to bear.

So let’s redefine that loaded word, ‘success,’ shall we?

I recently came across this quote by Robin Sharma:

Unexpressed potential becomes pain.

That’s the root of my misery, right there. I spent all my time striving for what I thought other people wanted for me, not what undeniably compelled me to my core. I’d allowed myself to dismiss my dreams, my talents, the stuff I did in my spare time and would happily do for free. I pooh-poohed my desires, pushed them aside to be dealt with in another lifetime.

But that ain’t success.

Here’s a novel idea… Maybe success doesn’t have to be so hard. Maybe it’s not about slaving away, nose to the grindstone, punching the clock, paying your dues, crying blood, sweat and tears. Maybe we’ve got it all wrong.

I left my job five months ago. I won’t say it’s all been plain sailing, because then I’d be lying. And lying is never a good idea. (Trust me. Being an actress gets rough.)

But quitting the old stuff and finally figuring out what’s right *for me* has been one of the most fulfilling times of my life. Now, I’ve arrived.

So how about this for a redefinition?

truth = success

You can sacrifice your sanity and test your limits, sell your soul and spend up all your time. (I’ll even get out my tiny violin and play a full-blown symphony for you.) But what’s it all for? So you can be the best, have the best, look the best? Woop-di-woop.

Give me someone who’s cosy in their skin, present in the moment, and satisfied that they’re living the life *they* want to live, and I’ll show you someone who’s made it. Big time.

Do me a favour and ponder something for a minute. Think about those dreams you’ve been saving for ‘someday.’ Whose dreams are they, really? Your dad’s? Your teacher’s? Your great-great-grandma’s, whose misty-eyed visions have been passed down for generations?

If you chase a dream that isn’t truly yours, ‘making it’ ain’t gonna happen. Well, maybe in the stereotypical sense of the phrase. But there’s nothing stereotypical about where we wanna be heading.

So let me know:

What are *your* dreams? What would success really look like to you?

(Image sources)

 

Rebecca Hunter is a (formerly) closet non-conformist who fails to see why crazy big dreams can’t be turned into even bigger realities. She’s got a major crush on life and gets fired up by fascinating stories and fresh ideas. That’s why she founded Soul Riot, a magazine that provokes thought, champions liberty and rebels against limitations. Do say hi on Twitter 🙂

 

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So, whadja think about Rebecca’s story? Can you relate? Drop a comment below and let us know your truth about success!