My dad used to sit in the backyard and just watch his garden.
No phone. No emails. Just stillness.
It never made sense to me when I was younger—how he could be happy with just that.
But now I understand.
He wasn’t chasing anything.
He had arrived.
In academia—and in so many elite careers—we’re trained to chase.
Chase status.
Chase metrics.
Chase recognition from people we don’t even know.
I feel that pull every day.
This deep, unshakable urge to be part of the most prestigious schools.
To be recognized as “one of the best.”
To earn a seat at the imagined table.
Even when my life is full—
A partner I love.
Kids who make me laugh.
Colleagues I care about.
Freedom to think, write, and build.
Still, the voice whispers:
“Shouldn’t you want more?”
Here’s what I think is happening.
We construct this amalgamated ideal—a stitched-together fantasy of all the “best” traits we see in others.
The top publication record.
The perfect teaching scores.
The charming personality.
The viral following.
The elite institution.
The MacArthur. The Nobel. The NYT op-ed.
But this ideal?
It’s a monster.
It doesn’t exist.
And comparing ourselves to it only makes us feel broken.
We forget: the entire picture matters.
That so-called “flaw” you carry might actually be the source of your integrity.
That “slowness” might be the root of your originality.
That local, quiet life might hold more wisdom than any global award.
The pressure to perform isn’t just exhausting.
It’s distorting.
It makes us forget that this—right now—might already be enough.
Maybe we don’t need to outrun the system.
Maybe we just need to stop sprinting toward someone else’s fantasy.
And remember how to sit still.
And notice the garden.