When we’re children, life feels like a race that hasn’t even begun, yet everyone is already talking about the finish line. Adults ask us wonderfully innocent questions.
“What do you want to become when you grow up?”
Astronaut. Doctor. Scientist. Cricketer. Prime Minister.
Nobody has ever leaned down, smiled warmly and asked,
“So… are you planning to become a perfectly happy ordinary person?”
We are encouraged to be the best, aim higher, dream bigger, stand out, leave a mark, and become someone extraordinary. Schools celebrate rank holders, workplaces reward high performers, and social media constantly reminds us that someone, somewhere, is achieving something remarkable. Without realising it, we begin to believe that a meaningful life must also be an exceptional one.
I grew up with a front-row seat to excellence.
My elder sister was one of those students every teacher remembers. She topped her class and seemed to excel at everything she touched — debates, essay writing, elocution, competitions. She was articulate, confident, and naturally comfortable in the spotlight. I admired her deeply then, and I continue to admire her today. I’m fairly certain the report card printer adored her too.
Then there was me.
I was what I fondly call a comfortable 80-percenter. Rarely above it, rarely below it. If school had an award for “Most Reliably Average,” I would probably have finished second. I wasn’t the child collecting trophies or volunteering to lead every school event. I never dreamed of becoming the class leader or standing at the microphone. I was happiest somewhere in the middle of the group. Give me a clear plan, and I would happily carry it out. While others enjoyed taking charge, I genuinely enjoyed being part of the team. Looking back, I wasn’t lacking confidence. I simply wasn’t interested in the spotlight.
Unfortunately, society often mistakes that for a lack of ambition.
For a long time, I wondered if something was missing. Was I not ambitious enough? Should I have wanted more? Should I have tried harder to stand out? Shouldn’t I have a five-year plan, a ten-year plan, and preferably a TED Talk?
Years later, after studying psychology and spending years listening to people’s stories, I realised I had been asking the wrong question.
Why do we assume that everyone is supposed to shine in the same way?
Like millions of Indian students, I enrolled in engineering — not because I had a childhood romance with operating systems, but because it felt like the official gateway to becoming “successful.” Then came IT, where every promotion, certification and business card can make me feel I am climbing closer to the mythical land of “extraordinary.”
Years later, psychology quietly tapped me on the shoulder and asked,
“Are you becoming happier… or just collecting better labels?”
That was a rather uncomfortable question.
Positive psychology offers a refreshing perspective. The happiest people weren’t always the most successful. They were usually the people who had stopped auditioning for someone else’s life. Happiness grows when our lives are aligned with our own strengths, values, and personalities. Some people thrive on leadership, competition, and recognition. They are energised by challenges, inspired by responsibility, and fulfilled by creating something that bears their signature. Others find equal joy in contributing quietly, working alongside others, building relationships, and doing meaningful work without needing applause. Neither path is superior. They are simply different expressions of what it means to be human.
Yet society often celebrates only one of them.
We applaud the person standing on the stage but rarely notice the many people who quietly made the event possible. We celebrate the soloist. We rarely applaud the orchestra. Yet the orchestra is what makes the music beautiful.
Perhaps that is why so many of us spend years trying to become a version of ourselves that never really fit. The employee chasing promotions they secretly don’t even want. The dependable smart teammate feeling guilty for not wanting leadership. Not because the next job excites them. Because standing still feels like failure.
The irony is that happiness doesn’t always arrive wearing medals or titles. More often, it slips quietly into ordinary moments.
A relaxed conversation over coffee. An evening walk without checking the time. Laughter around the dinner table. The satisfaction of finishing work well. Watching your children grow. Knowing that someone trusts you. Feeling useful. Feeling loved.
These moments rarely make headlines, yet they quietly build a meaningful life.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve realised something that would’ve disappointed my younger self. The more I stopped trying to fit someone else’s definition of success, the more I found my own. Sometimes maturity is simply saying,
“I don’t actually need everyone to be impressed.”
That doesn’t mean we should stop growing or stop dreaming. Growth is a beautiful part of being human. But growth doesn’t always mean becoming more impressive. Sometimes it means becoming more authentic. Sometimes it means recognising that your personality isn’t a problem to be fixed, but a way of being that deserves to be understood.
Perhaps we’ve misunderstood what an extraordinary life looks like.
Maybe an extraordinary life isn’t one where millions know your name. Maybe it’s one where the people who know your name are grateful you existed. Maybe success isn’t measured by how many people applaud you. Maybe it’s measured by how many people feel seen, valued, and safe because you were there.
Ordinary is not the opposite of extraordinary — it is where most of life actually happens.
“Be thankful for what you have; you’ll end up having more. If you concentrate on what you don’t have, you will never, ever have enough.”
— Oprah Winfrey