As I sit here in my 30s, I can finally see it clearly: I’ve spent most of my life trying to measure up. Competition can be healthy. It can push us, sharpen us, even make us stronger. But sometimes—sometimes—it feels like we become so focused on winning that we forget something incredibly unique and profound. Does anyone else feel like we’re swimming in a world of always trying? Constantly treading water, riding waves, just hoping to stay on top.
Trying to:
Make the team.
Get the A’s.
Land the degree.
Land the job.
Then land the promotion.
Collect the titles.
Make the money.
Save the money.
Meet the status.
Be liked.
Be enough.
Land the guy.
Land the girl.
Check off the bucket list before the hourglass empties.
Build the picket fence.
Upgrade to the bigger house.
Lose the weight.
Fight the wrinkles.
Fit the profile.
Make the world happy.
Then wake up tomorrow and do it all over again. Make a bigger pot of coffee—you’re going to need it, right? Just writing that list exhausts me. Whether we want to or not, we’re expected to win. To achieve greatness. To emerge with a success story tied neatly in a bow. The pressure can feel suffocating. And listen—I have a good job. I’ve done meaningful, exciting things in my writing career. I am blessed beyond measure. So how dare I complain? But some days, like Cyndi Lauper made a detour and went country, I want to make my own detour—schedule-less, routine-less, expectation-less, checklist-less, and yes, even goal-less. Just sometimes.
I want to drive to a place that doesn’t exist, instead of my usual Monday-through-Friday highway. A place where I don’t feel like I have to measure up every single day. A place where I don’t feel like I have to win just to be worthy. But since that place isn’t real, I’m left with one other option: I go there in my mind.
Maybe I only think I have to measure up to be successful.
Maybe I only think I have to be liked or chosen.
Maybe I only think I have to lose weight to be attractive.
Maybe I only think I need a man to make my heart whole.
Maybe I only think I need a book deal to finally say, “I made it.”
Maybe I only think I have to win in order to actually win.
Or maybe—not winning is actually me winning. Stay with me. I confuse myself too.
When I was 28, I felt like I had won the award for biggest failure. Yes—28. I sat alone in my bedroom one night, jobless, single, and completely unfulfilled. I danced with my pity that night, and honestly, we crushed it. Poor Felicia. I couldn’t find a job I loved—or a guy. I didn’t have a bachelor’s degree, and countless friends reminded me that I needed one. Yet I had an interpreting degree, an interpreter’s license, and a broadcasting diploma. When would it ever be enough? (It never will.)
At 20, I graduated from broadcasting school. Nearly a decade later, there I was at 2 a.m., sending out that dusty demo CD—now converted to an MP3—to random radio stations. I was reaching high. Maybe too high for some. My experience felt thin. I had interned at a few stations, but I hadn’t taken it seriously enough. I was young. Some days, I still feel like a kid. But even then, I was desperate to leave my mark. To prove something. I was collecting imaginary accolades and stuffing them into a little glass bottle, trying to outrun the ticking clock of the world.
That clock became my clock. If we don’t follow the world’s timeline, we’re labeled late bloomers. Unsuccessful. Behind. What a deception. You are your own story, friends. You are your own story. Put that on repeat like a classic AC/DC record—some things deserve to be heard again and again.
That night, I sat in front of my computer with nothing concrete to offer—only a desire for more. Wanting more isn’t wrong. There’s value in refusing to stay complacent. Wanting more helps us take risks, set goals, and move forward. All good things. My issue with “more” is when it convinces us that not having it means we’re failing. That someone else’s more means we are less. More. More. More. I’m tired of that word. Turn the AC/DC back on.
After that night of hoping and networking, things began to change. I didn’t plan to become a writer, but life had other ideas. Before I knew it, I was 28 and, by the world’s standards, a “success” (yes, I’m rolling my eyes). I was interviewing Wayne Newton, Dolly Parton, Cyndi Lauper, and others—no eye roll there. I was writing their stories. My work was being published. According to family, friends, and society, I had arrived. I was winning.
But here’s what the world doesn’t tell you: success is never enough. You’ll always chase more, and when you don’t have it, you’ll feel like you’re failing again. Success is a blessing—one I deeply appreciate—but it does not define us. It is not the source of our worth. It does not determine whether we are accomplished souls. It simply doesn’t. I cherish every opportunity, every interview, every story. But this goes deeper than gratitude.
Because as much as I’ve won, I’ve also lost. Oh, have I lost. Failed—with an F so big it could cover the state of Ohio. When your world feels over, no one can minimize that. You just have to bleed for a minute.
I was dropped from a magazine column. One editor told me I was a better writer than she was. Two stories later, I was told I missed the mark. Just like that—I was gone. Another time, a story I wrote about a high-profile celebrity was hated by the publicist. I’ve heard “no” more times than I can count. And yes, I’ve also heard “yes.” I’ve been praised. One person even asked me to write his book. I’m not boasting. I’m sharing truth.
Winning doesn’t define you. Losing doesn’t either. You don’t have to wake up every day trying to win. Surrender. Learn. Grow. Be.
The world will praise you one day and drop you the next—like a burning plate pulled from the microwave without a potholder. Void the noise. Learn from mistakes. Appreciate the wins. But don’t live for a worldly war.
Don’t live for approval. Don’t live for checklists. Regret doesn’t mean failure—it means you lived. No job title, degree, or opinion will ever validate your worth. I’ve been judged for my weight, my career path, my education, my privilege. I’ve been made to feel small. But I found peace in realizing this:
I will never be enough for the world.
But I can be enough for me.
And you can be enough for you.
Let’s crush the idea that worth comes from status or applause. Let’s trade our hunger for “more” for compassion and kindness. Let’s set a new standard—where your story is enough, and so is mine.
