Ambition is Boring

I'm not dead yet!!!!!

Let’s set the mood…

The mirror doesn’t lie, but it does forget.

That’s the dangerous part.

I used to think I was ambitious.

And I was.

Still am, depending on your definition. But not like them. The ones who circle like sharks.

More like the kind of ambition that confuses success with being taken seriously by people you don’t even like.

The ladder was always there. And yeah, I guess I’m lucky that way.

But I don’t want it anymore.

Not since every step up started to feel like a trade-off with self worth. Since climbing began to feel a lot more like disappearing.

The glory of each rung isn’t the same when it comes with splinters and demands an appetite, not a conscience.

And I’m not noble or hungry anymore.

Just tired.

Each morning, I press my cheek so close to the mirror it fogs from my hot head.

I like to think it’s easier that way though.

Blurred edges leave room for denial. And I find comfort in that.

Clarity cuts. And my Cancer moon loves to bleed.

But her cruelty isn’t just mine—I’m sure you’ve felt it too.

Clarity has never really been all that kind to anyone I know.

I mean, how could she be?

Not now that Instagram has become proof of a life worth envying, and our resumes have melted into our flesh.

So here I stand. A woman with a reflection thinned out like paper.

Dry. Wrinkled. Thin.

I’m not a vision. I’m not a muse.

I’m a clenched jaw in a room of loose tongues.

An undone ponytail in a world obsessed with the clean girl aesthetic and slicked back buns.

Under-eye math equations, swollen from calculating sleepless nights and caffeinated highs.

I guess somewhere along the way I traded my softness for strategy.

Innate charm for currency.

My warm, slow mornings still feel like I’m compounding interest on a version of myself I never meant to invest in.

Why must everything be so transactional?

Even my thoughts feel invoiced. Like I’m racking up vibrational debt just for existing or something.

Idk, man.

I’m just done cashing in on a lifestyle that has a no return policy, you know?

This isn’t some tragic, fallen woman monologue.

(Though I’m sure that would really get you off lol)

I just can’t be bothered to nod along to some guy explaining the “future of affiliate marketing” anymore.

No, like I really can’t.

It’s stupid.

No offense.

But maybe I am too, because I keep feeding a fire that doesn’t even want to burn.

Log after log, I keep stacking them.

Eyes red from fanning smoke, waiting for a damn spark to light me up again.

And for what?

A title that doesn’t mean shit or fix anything that actually matters.

It’s not curing cancer, saving the planet, getting me high, or even making me sound more interesting at dinner party.

What a waste.

Ambition.

A word I’m supposed to want.

Which, I mean, sure. Makes sense.

Ambition is objectively attractive.

But unfortunately for me, it’s not working out like I hoped.

And what’s worse is that I’m embarrassed by that.

Chasing something that wants nothing to do with me.

Something that’s made me stiff, all too serious, and completely disconnected from the juiciness that is life.

How boring is that?

I like media. I like branding and trends and content and whatever.

But, if I’m being honest, I’d rather sit on the sidelines, observe the absurdity of it all, and talk a little shit with you pretty people on Substack, than try to sell you wings sponsored by Red Bull.

I think I’m just now realizing I’ve spent the past few years treating myself like a project, not a person.

And God damn, that is so annoying of me.

Like productivity has become my pulse.

Loud.

Insistent.

Begging to be witnessed.

Thirsty for applause…

GAH.

It’s exhausting.

Don’t get me wrong, I love validation. I’m not humble pie nor a robot. But I hate needing it just to feel like I exist. To feel seen or remembered or whatever?

It’s humiliating.

I still believe I was made for big things.

That part hasn’t changed.

But what’s shifting is how much I’m willing to internally suffer just to prove it on paper.

Desire should not require begging.

And what’s meant to expand you shouldn’t make you feel small.

Right?

I don’t believe that I’m weak or hazy.

But a heartbeat trapped under artificial urgency, chasing something like I’m not already something? Yeah. Maybe.

It’s just sad.

And frankly, it’s starting to show.

I feel like I’m starting to look dull and decrepit.

When really, I should be a radiant fairy floating around in white silk, lost in a closet full of Belgian linen and overpriced Goop crystals, bought to realign my chakras and cleanse whatever it is that needed cleansing.

I think ambition lives in all of us. Sure. It should.

But I want fewer days ending in apology, and more moments that feel like love affairs with red wine in 4pm golden light with people that make you feel delicious.

What if not playing the game is actually the most ambitious thing you can do?

To live fully.

To never be shackled to some desk that smells like old coffee and male ego.

To be surrounded by art and beauty, not to call it “content” but to simply breathe it in.

To write when I want.

To break the rules about being palatable or strategic or “aligned."

If ambition was the ladder, then maybe desire was the fire.

No wonder the logs won’t catch.

I’m stuck somewhere between a machine and a wildfire.

Strife and surrender.

Sacrifice and softness.

I can’t tell the difference anymore.

Both leave their mark.

But I do know this: I don’t care to be alive if I don’t feel it. So I’m gonna feel it. Because I’m not dead yet!!!!

So, I shall give my permission to do so.

To be both sun kissed and spared. To harvest pleasure year round. Not just in July when my mind goes dumb the mirror is more forgiving.

I remember being half naked at a full moon party, dancing with fire in Thailand about 8 years ago. If you told that girl her aspiration would amount to 40+ hours a week in pantsuits and boardrooms, she would’ve choked on her shroomshake.

I like to think that my current reality exempt of corporate America and full of days writing online, traveling the world, and married in love would make her proud.

So long as I didn’t admit my truer truth:

That sometimes I can’t enjoy it.

That somewhere along the way I started thinking anything outside the corporate climb was unstable, unserious, unworthy.

That I treated rejection and unemployment like character development, instead of just admitting I was always going to be a little too much for LinkedIn. That game was never mine to play.

But that story has gone cold.

I’m bored.

We’re all over it.

So I’m back in the kitchen.

Hungry for hedonism, and the luxury of iconic obscurity.

I’m not interested in being well-behaved, well-positioned, or well-liked anymore.

I just want to write things that make people feel something, you know?

Good, bad, existential.

Love, rage, irrational.

Honestly, idc what you feel.

Just as long as you do.

Before you keep scrolling—

Feel.

And if we’re going to feel everything all the time here, I’d at least like to enjoy myself while doing it.

I want my coffee to turn into wine.

And never write another “circling back” email.

I want to say, “you’re a dick,” if you’re being a dick because when you’re a dick, someone should tell you you’re being a dick. And because I’m a patriot like that.

And then disappear into thin air because I got distracted by a ʚїɞ and reappear glowing, barefoot, holding golden figs like the adorable, bite sized human I am.

So, if that makes me an irresponsible airhead, fine.

So be it.

At least I’ll be beautiful and interesting.

Someone else can write the ambition burnout case study.

I’ll be sun drunk in the footnotes, flirting with obscurity, doodling my own blueprint.

Because what the mirror forgets, I vow to remember.

And that, my pretties, is enough to make me dangerous again.

day 2 at moms