Choosing the Right Kind of Success

I am going to suggest something new—and yet, ever so universally simple.

I’ve been thinking about my New Year’s resolution, and something about it just didn’t feel grounded or real enough to me. The idea of a random resolution—chosen almost out of obligation because it’s December—rang a little gimmicky in the parts of me that actually understand how habits work. You know that thing we commit to with full enthusiasm for two and a half days, only to quietly slip back into our regular programming?

Because real lifestyle change doesn’t happen in declarations. It happens in stages. In phases. In a series of small, ironclad decisions that, over time, culminate in a transformed you. Not overnight. Not loudly. But inevitably.

So, dear reader, I’ve decided to commit to a New Year’s evolution.

Not a new habit—but a new reset. A more evolved version of myself. The kind of person who can proudly say, I am my own role model. Because let’s be honest—that is the biggest challenge, and quite possibly the biggest flex of all.

Can you look at your own life and honestly say that you mirror a life of excellence?

Well, here’s the good news: it is possible.

You can become the kind of person who isn’t constantly apologizing to herself for missing the mark of her own expectations. The kind who conquers her thoughts—and therefore, conquers her day. The kind who doesn’t merely rise to the occasion.

No, no.

You can become the person who is the occasion.

You are a seed of a proverbial sequoia. And when you reach your fullest potential, you will be a sight for sore eyes. The kind of beauty people travel for. The kind of strength people stand beneath in awe. A pillar of excellence—a fully realized version of your DNA.

Did you know the average giant sequoia grows over 300 feet tall and nearly 30 feet wide? For perspective, the Statue of Liberty stands at 305 feet. That’s not a metaphor—that’s a fact.

So picture yourself that way. Metaphorically, yes—but intentionally.

I use the tree metaphor because trees don’t grow and then walk around searching for the perfect place to exist. They grow exactly where they’re planted. They make the most of where God put them.

And while life will certainly move you from place to place (unlike trees), you have the honor—and the responsibility—of existing within a living ecosystem of people: family, children, parents, friends, colleagues, and circumstances. Within that ecosystem, you will become one of two things:

An example of what happens when someone shows up for herself.

Or an example of what happens when life becomes a constant showdown.

Let’s go after the former.

Your greatness needs you to do things differently if it’s ever going to see the light of day.

Of course, you can add to what follows—but allow me to pour into your spirit a few things that will surely open the door to becoming the kind of person who doesn’t need to look any further than the mirror to see someone who takes her life, her health, and her faith seriously.

Now—let me tell you a story.

Do you hear the fireplace crackling? I do.

Pull your blanket closer. Settle in. Let’s walk deep into the forest.

Once upon a time, there was a young giant sequoia named Simon who was afraid to grow.

He was afraid of heights, for one. He didn’t want to get that tall. And then there was the matter of time—his lifespan unsettled him deeply. His mother was over three thousand years old and still stretched her branches as though she were barely two thousand. His dogwood friends, by contrast, would live around eighty years, if they were lucky. Simon couldn’t imagine existing for thousands of years after they were gone.

On top of all that, most of the trees around him would never grow taller than thirty feet—which, coincidentally, was Simon’s current height. And honestly? He was fine right there.

When the sun came out, he asked his taller friends to shade him so he wouldn’t receive too much light. When it rained, he tightened his roots so the water couldn’t nourish him too deeply. And when the wind blew—when the other sequoias swayed gracefully, strengthening their roots—Simon stood stiff as a board.

He wanted to stay exactly who he was at thirty feet.

He knew his potential. He also knew that growing to three hundred feet meant unfamiliar territory. Loneliness. A world he didn’t recognize. And worst of all—it meant becoming someone he didn’t yet identify with.

One afternoon, his mother, Becky, noticed his friends shading him yet again—and she had had enough.

She bent down low, farther than was comfortable, straining her ancient branches just to reach him. It hurt a little. But she needed him to hear her.

“Simon,” she said gently, “why are you so afraid to grow?”

Simon sighed.

“I just don’t want to change,” he admitted. “I don’t mind getting better. I’m fine with stronger branches, thicker roots, and even more leaves. But I don’t want to get taller. And I don’t want to live for thousands of years.”

Becky considered him thoughtfully.

“Okay,” she said. “But tell me—what’s so wrong with getting tall? And what’s so wrong with a long life? Earth is fun.”

Simon shrugged.

“My friends will be gone long before I’m even half your height,” he said quietly. “And if I get tall, I’ll be lonely. It’s only us sequoias up there.”

Becky smiled—the kind of smile only a mother can give.

“Well,” she said, “I’ve been keeping a secret from you. And I think it’s time you knew.”

Simon’s eyes widened.

“A secret? Okay… what is it?”

Becky said calmly,

“The secret is this: everyone is a success. Every single one. Everyone gets exactly what they want out of life.”

Simon frowned.

“So… I can stay down here? I can stop growing and still be successful?”

“Oh yes,” Becky replied. “You can be a successful failure or a successful winner. Both require consistency. Both take effort. Both demand decisions that align with the outcome. And most importantly—both require belief.”

She gently patted his bark.

“If not becoming who you were meant to be is what you desire,” she said softly, “you will succeed. And I will love you no matter what.”

Then her tone shifted.

“But here is my warning, my son. Your roots are connected to mine. To your sisters, your brothers, and your father. If you choose to live only thirty years, you shorten our lifespan too. When one of us grows fully, it elevates and sustains the entire family.”

She paused.

“If you don’t grow like your father and me—to three hundred feet and beyond—you’re right. It is less lonely down there. The shorter trees have more friends, more distractions, more entertainment from the animals.”

She looked out across the forest.

“But people don’t travel from all over the world to see them. They come to witness excellence. They come to stand beneath greatness. And if you refuse to grow, you won’t inspire the next generation who comes searching for wonder.”

Her voice softened again.

“And Simon—I see how you don’t sway when the wind blows. You’re not enjoying your life. You’re not taking time to breathe in the pine-sweet air. To notice the miracles hiding in ordinary days.”

She swallowed.

“That pains me the most. Because you’re missing one of life’s greatest gifts—the ability to see wonder everywhere. And with the way you’re living now,” she said gently, “you will certainly be a success.”

Simon stood still for a long time.

The animals rustled through the underbrush. The sky grew heavy with clouds. His friends drifted into another afternoon nap.

Water pooled at the base of his roots, and Simon began to cry.

“What must I do to change, Mother?” he whispered.

Becky smiled.

“Let go of the people who cannot grow with you. Say goodbye to any habit you don’t want echoing through generations as your legacy. And for heaven’s sake—sway when the wind blows.”

She leaned closer.

“Enjoy every single day you are given. Because one day, you’ll look back and wonder where all the time went. And if you’re lucky, each of your rings will tell a story—a life of purpose, a heart of dedication, and a tree who chose to be a success in the right direction.”

Until next time,

Maria 🌹