Somewhere along the journey, you made a quiet, unconscious vow: I’ll keep building this version of me until it works. The strategy. The identity. The voice. The routine. The dream. And for a while, it did work. You advanced. You earned trust. You gained momentum. You built something people recognized. But recently, it doesn’t feel like you anymore. It’s not a crash. Not a breakdown. Just a subtle erosion of excitement. A whisper of disconnection. You’ve outgrown a version of

You became a leader because you had vision. Because you cared. Because people saw something in you — and followed. You shaped the mission. You carried the culture. You became the anchor, the engine, and the example. And then, something unexpected happened. You stopped growing. Not because you lost your ambition — but because you became responsible for everyone else’s.

Growth is seductive. It makes you feel strong. Strategic. In motion. You’re scaling. Building systems. Expanding your reach. Launching new products. Hiring a team. The numbers are up, the pace is quick, and the vision is thrilling. But quietly, beneath the movement, something feels off. You’re not more fulfilled — just more distracted. You’re not more aligned — just better defended. You’re not more powerful — just harder to reach. We call it momentum. But sometimes, it's avoi

There’s a strange grief that comes with success. Not because something failed, but because something worked too well for too long. You became good at what you do. Maybe even excellent. People respect it. They reward it. The world knows you as it. And now… it’s starting to feel tight. Like clothes that once fit like armor, now suffocating. Like a role you rehearsed until it became real — and now it’s too real to break. That’s the trap of the familiar.