i-finally-made-it-then-i-disappeared

It was summer 2023 and I was sitting at our office conference table surrounded by evidence of success and feeling none of it.

Revenue was up, but I was empty. Somewhere along the way, I built a business I no longer wanted to run.

I wanted to wipe it all clean and start over.

Let me back up.

My entire childhood can be summed up as almost good enough to be part of the club. Almost talented enough to make the sports team. Almost cool enough to be in the popular kids group. On the cusp, but never accepted.

This creates a lone wolf mentality. A “watch me” attitude. And that drove me hard for seventeen years.

As a pro cyclist, I became good enough to be welcomed into most clubs, except the most elite.

I was at the top of my game in Canada, but not in the world. This only deepened my desire to be part of something bigger.

So when I started my business, that was a primary goal. I wanted to be among the greats, and finally be part of the club.

And then it started to happen.

The people I’d admired from afar became peers. A network I dreamed of having became reality. Text threads and group chats with some of the most powerful business people in the world.

Honestly, thinking of it now, it’s still a pinch-me moment.

It was an inflection point. I was in the club. I had access to rooms I didn’t even know existed.

You’d think this is all upside. And with the right mentality, it is.

But when I found myself part of the club, loss aversion went into overdrive. I wanted to stay.

Comparison also went into overdrive. I saw how far ahead others were, and I wanted to skip the line. I developed a deep desire to shrink the gap between me and them.

These are the downsides. The part of having a world-class network that nobody writes or speaks about.

Once I was part of the club, that part of me that had been on the outside for so long didn’t disappear. If anything, it became a louder voice in my head.

Imposter syndrome was heightened. I was insecure in the group, almost felt like I didn’t belong, so I feared losing my position at any time.

This made me close parts of myself off. I didn’t share my real opinions. I feared not taking advice, at the risk of upsetting someone and finding myself back on the outside.

I began to think that to be in the club was to be like everyone else. I started molding myself to the way they did things, failing to realize I was there because I was me. What I’d done, who I was. That’s what was interesting. I wasn’t there to be like everyone else.

This sounds obvious now. But trust me, when you’re in it, it’s not.

I was still that kid who was almost good enough. Living in fear that I’d be found out as a fraud and end up back where part of my subconscious thought I belonged.

And then there was comparison.

You’ve heard that comparison is the thief of joy. It rang painfully true when I was surrounded by success that seemed unimaginable.

I wanted to rush to match it, because if I didn’t get there soon, I’d lose my spot. So I started taking risks that weren’t worth taking. Implementing strategies that served my ego, not my customer.

All of this in the name of belonging. To stay in the club. To belong where I’d been wanting to be my whole life. I finally had a taste of it and I wasn’t going to let it go.

Until I lost myself.

I stopped looking inward. I stopped listening to our customers and our team. I stopped trusting the instincts that had made us successful.

Instead, I looked outward. What were other brands doing? What did the successful people in my network advise?

I collected strategies like trading cards, implementing them because someone I respected said they worked, not because they fit who we were.

I was no longer carving my own path. I was walking someone else’s.

The business kept growing. But it stopped being fun.

And that July afternoon, sitting at the conference table, I realized I’d traded something I couldn’t get back. The joy of building something that felt authentic.

So I made a choice.

I’d rather have fun building something authentic than keep chasing success that felt hollow. I’d rather be interesting than impressive. I’d rather lose my spot in the club than lose the thing that got me invited in the first place.

I wiped the table clean. Not literally, but strategically. I stopped asking “what are others doing?” and started asking “what do we believe?”

It turns out that’s what got me in the room to begin with. Not the mimicry. The originality.

Being someone worth knowing is what earns you a seat. Not having what they have. Being who you are.

You bring a unique diversity of thought and experience. You’re interesting because of your path, not in spite of it.

A club worth being in doesn’t need another person performing success. It needs people who remember why they started.

I’m not sure I could have learned this lesson without going through it. But I’m hoping that writing this can save someone else a few years of becoming a stranger to themselves.

If you’re in the room and feeling the pull to blend in, to play it safe, to become a diluted version of yourself in the name of belonging. Stop.

The version of you that got invited is the version worth keeping.

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