When our sense of worth rests on the wrong foundations.
What makes you feel respected — that sense that you’ve earned it and that your effort mattered?
When do you know you’ve earned it — that sense that your effort actually mattered?
Maybe it’s the recognition that comes with a job well done, or the quiet nod from someone whose opinion you value.
We all crave that feeling, even if we don’t talk about it. The problem is, when our sense of pride depends entirely on that recognition, it starts to rest on the wrong foundation.
Before I could answer those questions for myself, I had to look back at where that hunger for respect began. I wasn’t a great student growing up.
C’s and D’s were enough to keep me moving from one grade to the next, and that was all I cared about. If I liked a subject, I’d do fine. If I didn’t, I’d shrug and take the hit.
Then, freshman year, something clicked.
I joined the music program, and to stay in it, I had to keep my grades above a certain line. Suddenly, there was something I cared about enough that coasting wasn’t good enough anymore. I wanted room to breathe above the minimum. I wanted to earn my place.
That’s when the A’s started coming — and with them came recognition: honor roll, performance awards, medals, even a spot on a bulletin board in the school’s front hall: Student of the Month. My photo, my name, my turnaround story.
The external recognition was intoxicating. It was the first time in my life that people looked at me and said, “You’re doing something right.” I became an overachiever almost overnight. It felt good to be known for something — to be seen.
But the recognition started to carry weight. I began to measure my worth by the next award, the next solo, the next performance. When I didn’t make an honor choir or lost a competition, it felt like a personal failing. The same system that had motivated me now owned me.
One day, my mom made an offhand comment that hit harder than she probably meant it to.
She told me my grades had only improved because of the girl I was dating — implying my girlfriend was the smart one, and I was just riding her coattails.
She wasn’t entirely wrong. My girlfriend was brilliant and made a fantastic study partner. She challenged me. But I’d made the honor roll before we started dating and stayed on it long after we broke up. Still, her words stuck. They left an asterisk on every accomplishment that followed.
That’s when pride started turning into proof — something I had to defend.
I didn’t just want to succeed anymore; I needed to prove that the success was mine.
Years later, that same dynamic showed up again — this time in quieter, more grown-up ways.
Every new job, every raise, every step forward came with the same conversation with my dad. He’d ask, “How much are they paying you now?” I’d tell him, secretly hoping he’d be impressed. He’d pause and then say, “That’s still not a lot of money.”
He wasn’t trying to be cruel. I think he just wanted to keep me grounded. But every time I heard it, it landed like an echo of my mom’s comment — a reminder that whatever I was doing, it wasn’t quite enough.
Over time, I realized I’d spent decades chasing that same validation — from bosses, from peers, from my dad. Each milestone gave me a momentary rush, followed by the familiar ache of comparison. Someone else always seemed to make more, climb faster, shine brighter.
What started as earned pride had become performed pride — pride built on other people’s scripts.
It wasn’t fake; it was fragile. It depended on things I couldn’t control: applause, approval, attention.
There came a point when I started asking myself what I was actually chasing.
Was it the work itself, or the recognition that came with it?
Every promotion, every new title, every milestone had become another layer of scaffolding around something I wasn’t sure was still standing underneath.
For years, I thought I was chasing success. Really, I was chasing permission to be proud.
And that’s the trap of performed pride — it feels solid right up until the moment someone moves the spotlight. Then you’re left staring at an empty stage, wondering who you are without the applause.
Somewhere along the way, I came across a Zen saying that stuck with me:
“Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.”
It’s about awareness. The work doesn’t change — but how you relate to it does.
I realized pride works the same way.
It isn’t found in the title or the pay stub or the performance review.
It’s found in how you show up for the work itself — the small, steady acts that no one sees.
I began to notice that the moments when I felt genuinely proud weren’t the ones that made LinkedIn updates or got me handshakes at all-hands meetings. They were the quiet, unglamorous ones: the late-night debugging session that finally solved a problem, the difficult conversation handled with grace, the weekend project finished just for the satisfaction of seeing it done right.
That’s what authentic pride feels like.
Not a trophy, not a title — a rhythm.
Chop wood. Carry water. Show up. Repeat.
And the data backs that up. Research from Gallup shows that recognition and respect are among the top reasons people feel motivated and fulfilled at work — even more than pay once basic needs are met. Harvard’s Adult Development Study finds the same: lasting satisfaction comes from connection, purpose, and growth, not status or income. Daniel Kahneman’s research adds that while money can lift happiness to a point, the benefit quickly levels off; after that, meaning and autonomy matter most.
When I think about the work I’m most proud of, it’s not the titles or paychecks — it’s therapy, repairing relationships, and showing up as a better version of myself. It’s telling my sons that I’m learning things in my forties that I wish I’d known in my twenties — lessons I would’ve been teaching them all along if I had. That’s the work that lasts. The data backs it up, but more importantly, so does lived experience.
Over time, I started to see how performed pride worked like steam trapped in a closed pipe, hissing and straining for release. It built pressure between men, pushing one up while forcing another down. Authentic pride, by contrast, was like a river current — cool against the skin, steady and expansive, something that carries everyone forward together.
When pride depends on comparison, every gain is someone else’s loss. One man rises, another must fall. The pressure just moves around.
But authentic pride is more like a river.
It flows. It nourishes. It connects.
When we build our worth on contribution instead of competition, our pride stops needing to stand above others. It starts standing among them.
Gratitude looks back at the fire someone else started.
Pride looks forward to the wood you’ll add next.
Maybe that’s what real pride is — not the noise, not the numbers, not the applause.
Just showing up for the work and tending the fire you were given.
Chop wood. Carry water.
Be proud of the way you tend the fire — the quiet rhythm of respect and recognition you build for yourself. In the end, that’s the same feeling we chase all along, only now it comes from within.
Reflection Prompt:
What’s something you’re proud of that no one else can see?