The Painful Truth About Succeeding Your Way Into Emptiness

Why the weight of my officer promotion list and corporate executive business card felt like the heaviest burden of my life

The moment I came face-to-face with the reality of my burnout, everything shifted.

There I sat, holding my military promotion orders in one hand and my new executive business card in the other, having spent twenty-seven years in uniform and seven in the corporate sector. Decades of sacrifice, grinding, and relentless pursuit had led to this pinnacle moment.

I should have felt complete. Vindicated. Proud.

Instead, a whisper cut through the silence: "Is this it?"

That question had been following me longer than I realized, but surrounded by tangible proof of my success, I couldn't ignore it anymore.

The Climb

For most of my life, achievement was my compass.

West Point. Combat deployments. Brigade command. Corporate executive.

I didn't question the pace because I didn't need to. The mission was clear. Success was measurable. The next rung was always visible.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped looking up and started running on autopilot.

Those 12-14-hour days became a relentless routine. My family bore the brunt of my military career, missing dinners, postponing vacations, and enduring endless 'just one more thing' before I could come home. I became adept at denying myself and saying yes to everyone else's demands.

The purpose was performance. What appeared to be confidence was often just a façade of control.

I wasn't just achieving, I was escaping and outrunning something I couldn't name.

The most dangerous part? I became an expert at convincing myself that this was enough. That the next promotion, the next title, the next achievement would finally fill the growing emptiness inside.

The realization hit me gradually: I'd become so skilled at listening to everyone else—superiors, subordinates, stakeholders-that I'd stopped listening to my own heart and mind about what I truly needed. I could read a room, anticipate what others wanted, and deliver exactly what was expected of me. But I couldn't tell you what I wanted for lunch, let alone what I wanted from life.

The thought terrified me.

The Emptiness

Here's what they don't tell you in uniform or the corporate world: you can succeed your way into burnout.

The Army gave me drive. The corporate world gave me titles. But neither gave me back the part of myself I'd been losing all along.

I wasn't just sad or angry. I was emotionally flatlining.

When my headquarters staff delivered a project that saved millions, I felt nothing. When promotions came through, the achievements I had once desperately wanted, I immediately focused on the next milestone, even moments that should have felt like victories left me emotionally flat.

I wasn't chasing joy anymore. I was trying to stay ahead of the emptiness.

There's a term for this: hedonic adaptation, the idea that no matter how high you climb, you eventually return to baseline. For me, that baseline was numbness.

The bravest thing I ever did wasn't leading troops in combat or making million-dollar decisions. It was stepping off the treadmill long enough to ask: "What do I want?"

Not what my parents wanted. Not what the Army expected. Not what corporate culture demanded. What did I want?

That question terrified me because I realized I didn't know the answer. I had spent so long becoming who I thought I should be that I'd lost touch with who I was.

The Choice

The decision to walk away wasn't a dramatic one: no lightning bolt moment, no grand gesture.

I reached a point where continuing felt more frightening than stopping.

"We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us." —Joseph Campbell.

Twenty-seven years of military service. A stable corporate position. Financial security. I was ready to let it all go to find what I'd lost along the way.

I stepped off the treadmill. I left the job. I sold the house. I let go of the identity I'd spent decades building.

It didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a failure.

It also felt like the truth.

In the stillness that followed, a new kind of clarity emerged, not all at once, but gently, like breath returning after a long sprint.

The Peace

Today, I measure success differently.

Instead of asking, "What did I achieve?" I ask, "How did I feel?"

Instead of "What's next?" I ask, "What's here?"

This morning, I sat outside watching the sunrise, something I once considered "wasted time." My coffee grew cold as I watched a pair of hawks circle overhead. No agenda. No objectives. Just presence.

These days, I'd rather be at peace with myself than chase applause I can't even hear.

Sometimes, stepping off the treadmill isn't giving up; it's taking a step forward. It's finally catching your breath.

The ladders are still there. But now I check where they're leaning before I start climbing.

What treadmill might you need to step off of today? The next time you achieve something you thought you wanted and feel that familiar emptiness, pause. Notice that feeling. Ask yourself: "What am I climbing toward?"

Pay attention to what comes up. That moment of honest questioning, that's where fundamental transformation begins.

What's the treadmill you've been afraid to step off of? Hit reply and let me know, I read every response, and your answer might be exactly what another reader needs to hear to find their courage to pause.