In my last journal, I talked about the project that energized me at work. I found an opportunity to automate a tedious process, jumped on it, and built something I thought would be valuable for our teams. I felt invincible—using AI-generated code, I built the core functionality in just eight hours and immediately shared it on Medium and LinkedIn. At the time, I believed it had real potential, and I couldn’t wait to show everyone.
The excitement I felt was physical—an urge expanding like a spider web, ready to reach others.
Eventually, I presented it to my coworkers and one of our directors. One coworker—who leads a major project where my app could play a part—told me it wasn’t the right moment to involve another team. That response threw me off. Why was someone at my level deciding what I could or couldn’t do?
The next day, I showed it to her again, this time with a coworker who was one level up. They both agreed it was worth sharing with the leaders managing the larger project.
I also messaged my director, sent him a screenshot of the app, and asked how I could contribute more. No response. Self-doubt crept in. What if it’s not as valuable as I thought? But I knew it was—this automation would prevent the burnout that caused two people to quit the last time they did this project manually.
Later, I found out that while he didn’t respond, he did screenshot my message and share it in the managers’ group chat, calling me a “go-getter.” That brought some relief.
Soon after, I scheduled a meeting with another director. She was excited about the product, but when I mentioned wanting to take the lead on it, she quickly shifted the conversation. She said they needed to evaluate who should own it because another manager wanted to build a similar tool in Tableau.
The next day, she brought it up in a team meeting, emphasizing that the decision should be based on roles and responsibilities, not just personal interest.
I couldn’t help but feel like that was directed at me. I had taken the initiative to build something useful, and now corporate bureaucracy was slowing everything down. Maybe I ruffled some feathers by bypassing layers of structure. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to move this quickly.
Suddenly, all that initial energy I had—the spider-web-like expansion—felt trapped inside me, unable to go anywhere.
The Bus Driver and the Passengers
I talked to my therapist about it. His response?
Forget everyone else. You saw an opportunity, took action, and made something happen. That’s success in itself.
Then he said something that changed my perspective entirely:
“You’re overidentifying with this part of yourself.”
At first, I didn’t understand what that meant. He then told me to imagine myself as a bus driver, with different versions of me as passengers.
There’s Jealous Me, Coder Me, Entrepreneur Me, Problem-Solving Me, Creative Me—all sitting in the back. The issue is, when one version hijacks the wheel, I become only that person. Right now, Employee Me—the one who wants to create value and gain validation from coworkers and managers—was taking over the bus.
I realized he was right. I was so proud of what I’d built, and the first sign of resistance made me spiral. My emotions were magnified by how closely I tied my identity to this single project. I assumed my coworkers and bosses didn’t value my work when, in reality, I had no clue what they were thinking.
I remembered that when I started my entrepreneurial journey, I had the same emotional swings—feeling unstoppable when things went well and like a failure when they didn’t. That’s because back then, Entrepreneur Me was driving the bus. But I am more than just the work I do.
What am I, then? I don’t know. I’m still discovering.
We also talked about my desire for validation—especially from my director, who has always felt intimidating. I wanted him to see me as someone valuable and important. He hired me, and I would not want him to ever feel disappointed. As my therapist explained this, I cried and giggled at the same time. I didn’t even fully understand why I was crying—it just felt like something inside me finally clicked.
I told him I felt sorry for myself for constantly seeking external validation, for caring so much about whether my boss approved of me—which I shouldn’t have.
He paused and then gave me a gift:
“Stop saying ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’t.’ That’s just self-shaming. Instead, acknowledge what you’d like to change, without blaming yourself for where you are now. You’re human. You mess up sometimes. No use in shaming yourself.”
He pointed out that saying “I shouldn’t care so much about my boss’s opinion” is a form of control we learn as children. A healthier approach would be:
“I would like to be less affected by other people’s validation.”
Then he reminded me: I am worthy as I am.
My value isn’t just in my work—it’s in my kindness, my ability to share, my intentions. It’s in the spaces I create, like my Love Letter Tea Social, where I helped foster an environment of warmth and expression.
My worth isn’t measured by a promotion, a title, or an approval from a boss.
It’s measured by the value I bring to the world in all its forms.
Rewriting My Script
He told me that much of this comes from cultural conditioning—the way I was raised, past experiences, and learned behaviors. In Eastern cultures, performance is often directly tied to identity and worth. For most of my life, I internalized that belief. My success, my productivity, my ability to impress authority figures—these became measures of my value.
But I don’t have to keep following that script.
I can rewrite it.
Not by throwing the whole book out the window, but by making small, intentional changes—choosing what truly matters to me and defining success on my own terms.
The More Acceptance I Find in Myself…
By the end of our session, I felt relieved. Understood. I left with a deeper awareness of why I react the way I do and how I can start changing it.
A few hours later, my therapist sent me a message:
“The more acceptance you find in yourself, the less you will seek in others.”
And that’s where I’ll start.