It was a Friday night in August 2017.
I poured myself a glass of cabernet, sank into the couch beside my husband Craig, and without warning, the question spilled out:
*“Why do we do this to ourselves? What’s the meaning of any of it?”*
I didn’t know it then, but that moment marked the beginning of a quiet revolution—from the inside out.
**On the outside, I had it all.**
I held an executive role at a major company, commuted ten hours a week, managed my kids’ packed schedules, kept a spotless home, and chased perfection in every corner of life—including punishing workouts that mirrored the tension humming through my nervous system. And every evening at 5:30 p.m., like clockwork, I’d pour that first glass of wine to “take the edge off.”
Day after day felt like *Groundhog Day*: dutiful, relentless, numbing. For years, I’d looked everywhere *outside* myself for answers—the next promotion, the bigger title, the higher salary, the dream vacation—hoping one more achievement would finally bring peace. But satisfaction always slipped through my fingers.
What I couldn’t see was that I wasn’t living my life at all. I was living a script written by someone else’s expectations—trading my time, energy, and focus for a version of success I never chose. Like a fisherman tossing the best catch back into the sea, I kept discarding what truly mattered to me in service of routines I believed I *had* to maintain.
**That Friday night, something broke open.**
For the first time, I let the question land. Not as a passing thought to be drowned out by busyness—but as a signal from deep within. I stopped listening to the world’s demands and finally heard my own heart.
**I realized I was living someone else’s life.**
Like so many, I’d equated societal markers—prestige, titles, income—with fulfillment. As the first in my family to earn a four-year degree, I’d clawed my way through college on grants, scholarships, and sheer will. I graduated *magna cum laude*, landed a client services role at Reuters, and by 24, moved alone to New York City. Soon after, I was recruited as a business analyst at Goldman Sachs.
On paper? A dream.
Inside? A growing emptiness.
**I began trading my well-being for validation.**
My body was the first to protest: migraines, unexplained rashes, fainting spells, panic attacks. My nervous system was screaming what my mind refused to acknowledge—I was still in survival mode, just dressed in better clothes and dining at nicer restaurants.
At Goldman, I navigated a culture that valued control over compassion. I reported to women whose insecurities bred resentment, and I bent myself into impossible shapes trying to earn approval. I silenced my intuition to chase achievement. The little girl who believed “making it” meant never stopping—that she had to earn her worth through relentless effort—was still running the show.
My suffering wasn’t just about external pressure. It was about the absence of inner tools: I didn’t know how to manage my time, protect my energy, or honor my boundaries. I hadn’t yet learned to lead from a place of peace.
**Years later, in a suburban Chicago home with Craig and our children, I stood in the middle of my “perfect” life—the house, the income, the accolades—and felt utterly hollow.**
The success I’d fought so hard for rang hollow. Chronic exhaustion became my constant companion. I’d escaped the fears my mother’s life had imprinted on me, but in doing so, I’d forgotten the promises I made to myself at my father’s bedside: to live authentically, fiercely, and on my own terms.
That glass of wine on a Friday night wasn’t just a moment of doubt—it was the first crack in a façade I’d spent decades building. And through that crack, light finally began to enter.