When Achievement Becomes Identity
Looking back, I think performance began very early.
Not because anyone told me I had to perform.
No one ever said that love depended on achievement. No one said, “If you don’t succeed, we won’t love you.” But as children, we interpret things. And somewhere along the way, I learned that sacrifice and achievement were connected.
Without realizing it, performance became part of my identity.
I was born in Montego Bay, Jamaica and moved to the United States when I was around ten years old. Growing up, my parents believed I had certain educational advantages and made sacrifices to send me to private school while my brother attended public school. For years, I carried guilt over that decision, even though it wasn’t mine to make.
It’s interesting how we take on things that don’t necessarily belong to us.
Looking back, I realize that was where performance began.
I felt a responsibility to justify the sacrifices being made on my behalf. I felt like I owed my parents a return on investment before I even knew what ROI meant.
Then we moved to the United States.
No one forced me to change. I didn’t experience racism or hostility. But like most children, I adapted. My accent softened. I learned to fit into my surroundings. No one told me to do it.
It was subtle.
And that’s the thing I’ve come to realize about so much of life.
Most things are subtle.
We wake up one day and wonder what happened, never realizing that the changes took place slowly over years.
As time went on, I excelled.
I built the life I had envisioned as a teenager.
I had the marriage.
The children.
The career.
The salary.
The life I had planned while lying in my bedroom as a young girl, imagining what my future would look like.
And yet, despite having everything I thought I wanted, something was missing.
Years later, while working at a Big Four consulting firm, I found myself experiencing what I now know were panic attacks.
Anyone who has experienced one understands.
It feels like your body is turning against you.
I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Looking back now, it seems like a distant memory. But at the time, it changed everything.
Around that period, something unexpected happened.
My YouTube algorithm changed.
One particular teacher kept appearing in my feed. At first, I ignored him. Then one day, I clicked on the right video.
As he spoke, I realized he was Jamaican.
And while he didn’t need to be Jamaican for me to learn from him, there was something comforting about hearing someone who shared a similar background and culture.
Life has a funny way of sending us our teachers.
What followed wasn’t dramatic.
There wasn’t a moment where fireworks went off or where I suddenly became enlightened.
In fact, that’s one of the biggest things I’ve learned.
Growth is subtle.
One day, I simply realized it had been a while since I’d had a panic attack.
A while since I’d felt consumed.
A while since I’d felt disconnected from myself.
There was peace.
And strangely enough, peace felt unfamiliar.
For a nervous system that has been overstimulated for years, peace can almost feel boring.
But if you’re in that season right now, stick with it.
Give yourself time.
We expect transformation to come with some grand moment, but most growth happens quietly.
Subtly.
Today, I still have goals.
I still manage multimillion-dollar projects.
I still pursue meaningful work.
I still participate fully in life.
The difference is that I no longer feel as though I have to lose myself in the process.
And perhaps that’s why this space exists.
Because after all of this, I found myself asking a question I couldn’t find many people talking about.
What now?
How do you go back to work?
How do you raise children?
How do you pursue goals?
How do you continue living and participating in life without losing yourself again?
I don’t have all the answers.
No one does.
But I know what it feels like to lose yourself.
And I know what it feels like to slowly find your way back.
And if that’s where you are, I hope you’ll stay awhile.
Until next time,
Stay anchored.
⚓