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How do you define Success coming from a Place of Lack?

Show me a determined woman and I'll tell you who you are.

By Fiction 'Ai' WriterPublished 2 years ago 3 min read
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How do you define Success coming from a Place of Lack?
Photo by Jens Lindner on Unsplash

"I want to be a successful woman in the nearest future."

It wasn’t something that she thought of, even though the words had been running through her mind since she was sixteen years old. It was something else entirely, and yet the word still echoed in her head and her chest and her lungs. She could do anything if only she could have this one thing, this opportunity that she needed so badly.

What would it take for her to have it? She knew it was more than physical desire, but there were other things, things that she didn’t know how to name. It was something that she couldn’t put into words no matter how hard she tried or how much she wanted to find them in any way possible.

She had spent almost all of the past year trying to find herself, to find what it was about her that made her want to pursue a career at all. She was good enough with numbers to be able to do it. She wanted it; it was all-consuming. Everything that she did she wanted to impress, wanted to excel at. If she failed to achieve that, well… she had never failed at anything before and there wasn’t a moment when she considered that she might fail at this as well. The thought was frightening, almost too much to handle. And so she pushed forward anyway, hoping with everything inside of her that perhaps she was destined to succeed, or maybe just to excel.

The days seemed to pass in a blur, each filled up with work and meetings. It felt like she was working on autopilot most of the time, barely processing whatever was happening around her. Her brain felt fuzzy, and her body tired, especially when she went home after a day at work. Her heart ached every time she thought about leaving.

Her family saw her mood change easily—a little bit too easily. Sometimes she caught them glancing at her, worry flashing across their faces as they tried to figure out why she looked so upset. But it didn’t matter to her anymore. They didn’t understand, and she didn’t need them to understand.

So now she was working on the first step.

When she first started, she hadn’t planned on working this much. She’d been saving money by taking odd jobs while she worked on her thesis, which eventually led her to a job in finance where her boss expected her to learn the basics of business. It had been hard, at first, learning new skills, but once she got her feet under her, it had gotten easier. The first few months of employment weren’t as easy as she had hoped they’d be, but in the end, the pay was better than she could ever have imagined and the work wasn’t too tiring. She liked it. She loved it.

She loved the whole job. Her dreams changed. Sometimes she imagined herself a success, a real estate mogul, or a movie star—the possibilities were endless. Some days the dreams were happy, others not so much, but she tried not to let that bother her. It didn’t matter what the dreamer dreamed about. Dreams change, no matter how vivid, whether they’re realistic or not. As long as she could keep dreaming, nothing else really mattered.

Reality can take its place.

But then, sometimes, the dreams stopped being dreams and became nightmares. Nightmares meant that reality itself came back,

I want to be a successful woman shortly. It was such a simple phrase, but it held a great deal of meaning. And I don't care if it's impossible. I don't care about anything but me. Just me.

Sometimes I think that the only thing that I've done right all these years survives. I've lived my entire life thinking it was over—and now here I am. A new chance at life.

A new chance at happiness.

I want to be somebody, somebody who'll accomplish whatever goal I outlined in my life. That's what I want… That was the only way that she'd ever truly known who she wanted to be.

And the rest is history.

success
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About the Creator

Fiction 'Ai' Writer

An amateur fiction writer.

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