When the Applause Fades
A reflection on the quiet exhaustion that follows achievement — and learning to redefine success on softer terms.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about how exhausting it can feel to want more — to constantly chase the next win, the next title, the next version of myself that finally feels “enough.” There was a time when ambition felt like oxygen. Now it sometimes feels like smoke — clouding everything, filling my lungs, leaving me gasping instead of grounded.
People don’t really talk about what happens after you start achieving the things you once prayed for. How the finish line keeps moving, how the applause fades faster each time, how “success” starts to feel like another kind of survival. You begin to realize that the reward isn’t always rest — it’s usually more responsibility, more pressure, more proving.
Somewhere along the way, I confused fulfillment with productivity. I told myself that purpose meant pushing, that progress required constant motion. And maybe that worked for a while. But lately, even the victories feel muted. The promotions, the projects, the small wins that used to feel like validation now feel like checkpoints in an endless loop. There’s a quiet kind of burnout that comes with appearing “put together” all the time — the kind that hides behind polished updates and polite smiles.
And if I’m being honest, part of that fatigue comes from the world I move through. As a Black professional, I’ve been taught that excellence is a form of protection — that if I worked hard enough, no one could question my worth. But what do you do when the very thing that once protected you starts to drain you? When being “exceptional” feels like a weight instead of a win?
I’ve been sitting with that question. The version of me that used to find joy in the grind is tired now. Not lazy, not ungrateful — just tired. Tired of measuring my worth in milestones. Tired of smiling through burnout. Tired of pretending that achievement and peace can’t exist in the same room.
Maybe this is what growth looks like — not giving up, but slowing down. Relearning how to move without chasing. Redefining success on softer terms: peace, purpose, and presence. I want to remember what it feels like to create without performance, to work without losing myself in the process.
That’s what negrowish is for me — the unlearning. The space between who I thought I had to be and who I actually am when I stop performing for the world. Maybe success isn’t the destination after all. Maybe it’s the moment you finally exhale.
So what does success look like when you stop chasing it?
