Grounded Ambition

Lately, I’ve been thinking about success—specifically, the kind that looks quieter from the outside but feels more aligned on the inside.

We tend to talk about ambition as something that should always grow, scale, and accelerate. Bigger audience. Bigger platform. Bigger reach. But rarely do we ask what that growth requires of the person living inside it, or whether the life being created is actually compatible with the body, the nervous system, or the values of the person doing the creating.

Two artists I admire keep coming to mind.

The first is Vince Staples. By most conventional measures, he’s successful: a long-standing career, cultural relevance, and a steady stream of opportunities. Yet he’s openly talked about not having a “hit” song in the traditional sense—and how that hasn’t stalled his life or his work. When he appears in a major campaign, like Calvin Klein, he’s clear about his role: he’s the model.

The shoot exists because of stylists, photographers, producers, set designers, organizers—people whose labor is just as essential, if not more so. He once questioned the idea of celebrating himself in front of a billboard in Times Square. Would the rest of the crew do that? Probably not. So why should he?

That question pushes back against celebrity idol culture. It suggests that participation doesn’t require self-mythologizing. That being part of something meaningful doesn’t mean inflating your own importance within it.

The second creative is a writer, Jennifer Carmody, who goes by the online moniker JK Ultra. She’s spoken candidly about her early dreams: becoming a New York Times bestselling author and going on a worldwide book tour. These are understandable dreams—especially when those are the milestones we’re taught to want, the ones most often presented as proof that the work mattered.

Instead of clinging to a version of success that no longer fits, she’s made peace with a more aligned reality. One that looks like self-publishing, building community, and speaking through newer platforms where her audience is already present and engaged. Her following is large, yes—but more importantly, it’s responsive. There’s reciprocity there. A sense of conversation rather than performance.

What both of these artists illuminate is something we don’t talk about enough: not every dream is wrong, but some are borrowed. Some ambitions belong more to an industry than to the person trying to live them out. Sometimes growth doesn’t mean “more”—it means more true.

I often hear people say, “This person should be more famous.” And I always wonder: more famous for what? And at what cost?

We’re encouraged to want visibility without being taught how to hold it. We celebrate scale without talking about the nervous system toll it takes—the loss of privacy, the constant exposure, the way safety and joy can become conditional. Britney Spears–level fame is often treated like a prize, without fully reckoning with the experiences that came with it. Not every body is meant to be that visible. Not every life can remain gentle under that kind of pressure.

So maybe the better question isn’t how big can this get, but how much can I hold?

How much attention can your nervous system tolerate?
How much responsibility still allows for rest?
How much visibility lets you remain present in your own life?

When you start asking those questions, success shifts. It stops being something you chase and becomes something you opt into. Something you consent to. Something right-sized to your values, your capacity, and your daily rhythms.

My favorite Vince Staples song is called “Yeah Right.” There’s a skepticism in it toward performative success—the kind that looks impressive but feels hollow. That tension runs through both Vince’s work and JK Ultra’s writing: an examination of the difference between borrowed dreams and an aligned life.

For me, this is where success becomes interesting again. When it’s not about maximum visibility, but meaningful reach. When it’s grounded, proportional, and kind to the person living it. When ambition doesn’t require self-erasure, and achievement doesn’t come at the cost of aliveness.

This is the kind of success I’m interested in—a success that can be lived inside of—gently, honestly, and on your own terms.