Last month, I had what you might call a crisis. Or maybe an awakening. I’m not sure which.
I was sitting in my home office in Saigon, looking at everything I’d accomplished. The successful websites I’d built. The book I’d published. The business I co-founded with my brothers. And instead of feeling proud or satisfied, I felt… nothing. Actually, worse than nothing. I felt like I’d been running a race for over a decade only to realize I’d been on a treadmill the entire time.
The realization hit me like a freight train: I’d spent years collecting achievements like Pokemon cards, desperately trying to outrun a feeling I couldn’t even name.
The achievement trap I built for myself
Back when I finished my psychology degree at Deakin, I thought understanding human behavior would give me all the answers. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. I ended up in a warehouse shifting TVs around Melbourne, wondering how the hell I’d gone from studying the human mind to mindlessly moving boxes.
That gap between education and fulfillment? It was my first clue that something was off with the whole “get degree, get job, be happy” formula we’re sold.
So what did I do? I doubled down. I founded Hack Spirit. Built it into something real. Then co-founded Brown Brothers Media with Justin and Brendan. Wrote a book about Buddhism and living with minimal ego (the irony isn’t lost on me). Each achievement felt like it would be THE ONE. The thing that would finally make me feel… what exactly? Whole? Complete? Worthy?
Looking back, I realize I was using success as a shield against something deeper. Something I couldn’t face.
Why we chase what we think we should want
Here’s what nobody tells you about success: it’s addictive precisely because it never delivers what it promises.
Think about it. When was the last time an achievement actually satisfied you for more than a week? A month at most? We get the promotion, buy the house, hit the milestone, and then what? The high fades, and we’re already looking for the next fix.
Buddhist philosophy has a term for this: the hungry ghost. These are beings with enormous appetites but tiny mouths, forever consuming but never satisfied. Sound familiar?
I spent years being a hungry ghost in a business suit. Every achievement was supposed to fill this unnamed void, but it was like pouring water into a bucket with no bottom.
The really messed up part? Society cheers you on the whole time. You’re “crushing it.” You’re “killing the game.” You’re everything you’re supposed to be. Except you’re not actually feeling anything you’re supposed to feel.
The moment everything shifted
Recently, my daughter was born. And suddenly, holding this tiny human who didn’t care about my LinkedIn profile or monthly revenue, something cracked open in me.
I realized I’d been so busy proving I was enough that I’d never stopped to ask: enough for what? For who?
All those achievements weren’t filling a void. They were covering it up. Like slapping designer wallpaper over a hole in the wall and calling it interior design.
In my book, Hidden Secrets of Buddhism: How To Live With Maximum Impact and Minimum Ego, I write about the importance of understanding our true motivations. Funny how we can know something intellectually but take years to actually get it.
Sitting with the unnamed feeling
So what is this feeling I’ve been running from? After weeks of actually sitting with it instead of sprinting away, I think it’s a combination of things.
Fear of ordinariness. Terror of being seen as unsuccessful. But underneath all that? A deep, primal fear that without all these achievements, I might not be lovable. Or worthy. Or enough.
Heavy stuff, right?
The thing about running from feelings is that they get stronger the longer you avoid them. It’s like interest on an emotional debt you refuse to pay. Eventually, the bill comes due.
For me, that bill arrived at 37, in the form of a complete disconnect between what I had and what I felt. I had everything I was told would make me happy, but I felt like I was living someone else’s life.
Learning to want what I actually want
Here’s where things get interesting. Once you stop running and turn to face whatever you’ve been avoiding, it loses much of its power.
I started asking myself uncomfortable questions. What did I actually want, versus what I thought I should want? What would I pursue if nobody was watching? If there were no LinkedIn updates to post or success stories to share?
The answers surprised me. Simple things kept coming up. Morning coffee without checking emails. Long walks without podcasts. Playing with my daughter without mentally writing content about fatherhood. Just… being. Without the constant need to achieve, produce, or prove.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating for dropping out of society or giving up on goals. But there’s a massive difference between pursuing something because it genuinely calls to you versus chasing it because you’re running from something else.
The practice of enough
These days, I’m practicing something radical: enoughness.
When the voice in my head starts listing what I should do next, what milestone I should hit, what achievement would finally make me feel complete, I pause. I ask myself: What if this is enough? What if I am enough, right now, without adding anything else to my resume?
It’s uncomfortable as hell. That unnamed feeling still bubbles up sometimes, whispering that I need to do more, be more, achieve more. But instead of running, I sit with it. I breathe through it. I remind myself that no amount of external validation will fill an internal void.
The paradox? Once you stop needing achievements to feel worthy, you’re actually free to pursue things for the right reasons. For joy. For curiosity. For genuine contribution rather than desperate validation.
Final words
I’m 37, and I just figured out what teenagers writing poetry have known all along: you can’t outrun yourself.
All those achievements I collected? They’re not bad things. But using them as armor against feeling inadequate or unworthy? That’s a game you can never win.
If you recognize yourself in this story, if you’re also on that treadmill of endless achievement, maybe it’s time to step off for a minute. Ask yourself what you’re really running from. Or toward.
Because here’s what I’m learning: Everything we’re told to want comes with an implicit promise of how it will make us feel. But that promise? It’s bullshit. The feeling we’re chasing has to come from inside. No achievement, no matter how impressive, can give you self-worth. You have to give that to yourself.
And that might be the hardest and most important work we ever do.
