OP-ED: Learning you’re enough
Like many of you, I have spent large chunks of life chasing shiny things. In that regard, I have been distracted by a desire to appear successful by having the trappings of “success.” You know, the things that say, “I made it. Applause, please.”
It started when I was a tween. America’s marketing machine had a huge influence on my psyche. I did not know what success was, but my Uncle Bill’s new Buick Riviera certainly seemed key to feeling important. I did not understand the formula but could sure feel its outline.
I wanted to be the kid that had five different outfits for school. That made me feel like I had achieved some level of royalty. Admit it, we all wanted something that made us feel a little taller.
On the playground, I could not hit or field a ball very well, but I wanted a Mickey Mantle glove. I ended up with the goofiest looking baseball glove available from the S&H Green Stamp store.
After I got my paper route, I began to buy status in the form of a Pee Wee Herman-type bike. And even though all my friends had sleds they bought at Black’s General Store that were faster than mine, my Sears Roebuck sled rocked out with a chrome bumper.
As I grew older, status-seeking didn’t stop, it just became a little more expensive. Even though I started to figure things out, I kept hanging on to that empty dream where “things” added to my worth.
When we were married, my father-in-law gave his only daughter his slightly used, white Chrysler New Yorker. We drove it around like a r茅sum茅 on wheels. It shouted success to strangers. In my mind, it said, “This guy has things figured out.” I didn’t.
Then came the pens. I once bought a pen that cost more than the coat I was wearing, and it immediately leaked into my shirt pocket. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
What I’ve realized over time — after decades of keeping up appearances and making monthly payments to prove I was “doing well” – is that the whole status game is like a treadmill. You work up a sweat, go nowhere, and still feel behind.
And yet, I knew I needed to take that walk through the mall of material validation to understand that what I was really seeking wasn’t admiration — it was meaning. A sense that I belonged, that I was valued, and that I mattered.
But the watches didn’t give me that. The cars didn’t. Neither did the Cross or Mont Blanc pens. What finally brought me some peace was realizing that status is not about being seen — it’s about being known for the potential value you bring to the game.
There’s nothing wrong with enjoying nice things. A well-made object, crafted with care, can bring joy – until it doesn’t. But when those things become the scoreboard of our lives, we start confusing attention for connection and flash for substance.
I’ve met people who looked like walking success stories — immaculate clothes, designer everything — but they were quietly anxious, drowning in low self-images and self-doubt. I’ve also met people in beat-up jeans and T-shirts who had more wisdom, generosity, and clarity than any CEO I’ve worked with.
True confidence, I’ve learned, is quiet. It doesn’t need a logo. It doesn’t need to drive a German-engineered midlife crisis. It shows up in small ways: kindness without an audience, generosity without expectation, and purpose without a press release.
If I could talk to my younger self, I wouldn’t put him down for wanting nice things. I’d just tell him: you don’t have to buy your way into being enough. You already are. We don’t need the symbols to be seen. We just need to stop hiding behind them.
And that, I’ve found, is the real upgrade.
Nick Jacobs lives in Windber.