When I was in high school, I developed a fixation with becoming Head Girl—our version of a student body president. I worked hard on my grades, my conduct, and a whole host of other things I knew I’d be evaluated on, all to put myself in the best position to be chosen.
Part of the selection process was an interview with a panel of teachers. On the day of the interview, I walked into a private room and answered their questions sincerely.
One question went something like: “Why do you think you’d make a good Head Student?”
I answered with everything I had—my heart, my passion, all the meaning I’d gathered from my life up to that point. I told them I was familiar with struggle, that life hadn’t been easy, and that I’d had to work to support my mom—something I’ll eventually share more about in future posts. I cried when I spoke about her. I told the panel that my experiences made me someone students could relate to, someone who understood hardship, and hopefully, someone they could look up to.
As an adult, I can see how my answer might’ve been better—but as a kid, I truly thought I’d done a good job.
But outside the interview room, a teacher pulled me aside and said, “You shouldn’t have spoken about your mother. You shouldn’t have cried.”
He went on to say something like, “They might’ve thought you were trying to manipulate their emotions.”
I was in disbelief. And when I later found out someone else had been chosen—someone I saw as more “typical” (no disrespect to her; she was great)—I was devastated. I remember walking out into the schoolyard, pacing, fuming.
If I can’t be honest about who I am… if that’s not respected, then what’s the point? How could they think I was trying to be manipulative? I was being sincere. My academic achievements speak for themselves. These people have known me for years!
And then, just like that, it hit me: Why in the world am I even upset about this?
When did becoming Head Girl become my goal?
Was it ever really mine to begin with? And how does having the role change my very real life circumstances, anyway?
Right then and there, I developed my own theory on success:
I decide the yardstick I use to measure my success—no one else.
I redefined what truly mattered to me—and that clarity has guided every decision I’ve made since.
What I’ve come to realize is that it’s easy to chase goals and accolades that were never really ours—goals handed to us by the career paths we pursue, the people we surround ourselves with, or the culture we were raised in. In some cultures, success is a house, a car, money in the bank, and a family. In certain careers, you’re told your work only matters if you’re recognized by X or achieve Y.
It is so important that we assess our goals continually to ensure that we aren’t wasting our lives chasing goals that were never ours to begin with. That we aren’t making ourselves miserable trying to keep up with standards that, at our core, we couldn’t care less about.
My culture values the house and the car. But I value using my resources to care for my mother. I would rather live in the woods, farming and exploring other cultures, than be trapped in an endless loop of online trends and public approval.
Yes, I want to look beautiful—but on my terms. That means accepting my body as it is, not molding it into what others have decided is beautiful.
So maybe this isn’t just about success.
Maybe it’s about how we measure the quality of our lives—our existence.
And sure, you could say I’m just calling the grape sour because I couldn’t have it.
But sometimes it takes losing something to realize you didn’t want it in the first place. You were just told that you should.
It is imperative that we question the very foundation of how we’ve been taught to measure success, self-worth, beauty. That we don’t allow ourselves to be led down a templated path that pulls us away from who we really are, who we desire to be—and what we truly value.
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