I Had to Unlearn Everything I Thought Success Meant
I spent years chasing titles.
Senior engineer. Lead engineer. Manager. I collected them like they meant something. Like each one was proof that I was on the right track, that I was successful, that I mattered.
Here's what I've learned: at the end of the day, no one cares.
Not in a cynical way. In a liberating way. The titles I was chasing? They were someone else's definition of success. A script I'd been handed without realizing I could write my own.
The Dream That Got Shut Down
I've always been curious about how things work. As a little girl, I was constantly taking apart speakerphones and remote controls just to see what was inside. I was especially fascinated by flight anything that defied gravity felt magical to me.
That curiosity led me to aerospace engineering, with dreams of working in space exploration. But as an international student, those doors were closed to me before I even got started.
So I pivoted. Commercial aviation. Eight years designing pilot controls, aircraft engines, in-flight entertainment systems. The work was fine. But I felt stuck. I knew I had more range than the role allowed.
And yet, leaving felt impossible.
The Chip on My Shoulder
As one of very few women in engineering, I carried a chip on my shoulder. I felt like I had something to prove. Leaving felt like abandoning that responsibility—like I was confirming every doubt anyone ever had about whether women belonged in those rooms.
But here's the thing about carrying a chip on your shoulder: it gets heavy. And at some point, you have to ask yourself—am I staying because this is right for me, or because I'm trying to prove something to people who aren't even paying attention?
The answer was uncomfortable.
Unlearning What Success Looks Like
Leaving engineering felt like failure. I had invested so much time and money. All those credentials. All those years. What was I supposed to tell people?
But I had to unlearn the idea that success has to look a certain way. Those milestones I was chasing—they were someone else's goalposts. And I was exhausted from running toward a finish line I didn't even want to cross.
So I went to law school at night while working full time. After passing the bar, I started my firm with $500 in the business account and a three-month runway. I built the website myself, reached out to everyone I knew, and grew from there.
Building my own firm changed everything. It showed me that work doesn't have to be miserable to be successful.
Self-Trust as a Compass
If I had to name the quality that's been most important to my success, it's self-trust. The willingness to trust my inner compass even when it leads me away from what looks successful on paper.
That self-trust has shown up at every major turning point. Leaving engineering. Starting a firm on a tight budget. Questioning traditional definitions of success. Each time, the path forward felt uncertain—but something in me knew it was right.
Curiosity without self-trust keeps you stuck. You can discover all sorts of things about yourself—what you want, what's not working, what needs to change—but if you don't act on what you discover, nothing shifts.
You have to be willing to walk away from paths others would hold onto.
What I Believe Now
At the core of everything I do is a belief I've learned the hard way: when people feel secure in their work—legally and emotionally—they build better businesses and better lives.
Success isn't the title. It isn't the milestone. It isn't the thing that looks impressive from the outside.
Success is building something that actually supports your life. Something that feels both sustainable and deeply fulfilling—not just impressive to others.
Every struggle taught me something essential. The hardest pivots led to the most meaningful growth. And letting go of traditional definitions of prestige and stability wasn't easy—but it was necessary.
Your Turn: Define Success for Yourself
Before you chase another milestone, before you collect another title, ask yourself these questions:
Whose definition of success am I chasing? Is it actually mine?
If no one would ever know about this achievement, would I still want it?
What would success feel like—not look like—to me?
Am I staying somewhere because it's right for me, or because I'm trying to prove something?
What would I build if I trusted myself completely?
Your answers might surprise you. They surprised me.