On a bitterly cold winter night, the streets of New York buzzed with the residual energy of the opera. The performance had been enchanting—each note, every gesture, a flawless dance of talent and emotion. The audience, wrapped in the warmth of their admiration, stayed until the final bow, unwilling to break the spell. But as the applause faded and the curtain fell, the reality of a freezing, wind-whipped night rushed in like an uninvited guest.
The city, once again, became a battleground of need and scarcity. Taxis were few, and the crowd that had once shared the magic of the opera now jostled against each other, vying for the same yellow chariots to ferry them away from the icy grip of winter. I stood among them amid the undifferentiated crowd—a soul craving warmth and validation.
Years before, I would have never admitted it, but that night, like many before it, I was not just seeking a ride home. I waited for the universe to affirm what I had always believed about myself: that I was different, unique, perhaps even superior.
The cold bit through my coat, and with each passing minute, the collective despair of the crowd seemed to grow. But then, as if on cue, a taxi appeared, gliding through the night, its headlights cutting through the fog of breath and desperation. It stopped directly before me—the back door handles aligning perfectly with my waiting hand. I didn’t just open the door—I claimed it like a rightful heir to a throne.
“You were different,” the driver said as I slid into the seat, his words a balm to my frigid body and my ever-seeking ego. I smiled, the warmth of the heater creeping over me, but the warmth of his words truly thawed my bones. I wasn’t just someone who had snagged a cab at that moment—I was special and unique. I lived for these moments when the world conspired to remind me that I was more than just another face in the crowd.
But what was I trying to prove? That I was better? Superior?
I now know this fixation was born from a fixed mindset—a need to cling to the idea that—nature sets apart my talents, intelligence, and very being. The self-esteem movement had only fueled this, with its mirrors and mantras, all designed to tell us that we are unique and entitled to more simply by who we are. I still remember the “I Love Me” mirror that topped my friends’ annual list of things they didn’t get me for Christmas. I laughed when I saw a mirror with those big, bold letters at the bottom as if staring into it long enough could convince you of your worth. It was harmless, I thought. But was it?
The problem isn’t in thinking you’re unique. The problem is when special begins to mean superior—when it becomes a measure of value, a way to rank yourself above others. I had fallen into that trap, equating my worth with how I measured up, not just in skill or success, but in every little interaction, every fleeting moment of recognition.
Until I discovered the concept of mindsets, I didn’t see how much this thinking controlled me. Like many, I believed my talents and abilities were fixed traits, endowments that made me who I was, perhaps more worthy than others. The scariest thought I rarely allowed to surface was the possibility of being ordinary.
This thinking led me to seek validation and meaning in every comment and glance. On good days, when the universe seemed to align with my self-perception, I could bask in the warmth of being “different.” But what about the other days? The days when I was just another face in the crowd, another person shivering in the cold, waiting for a cab?
I began to see that the pursuit of proving I was special was hollow. It left me vulnerable and dependent on the world’s approval rather than my growth and development. The fixed mindset had trapped me in a cycle of seeking external validation rather than focusing on becoming the best version of myself, regardless of how I compared to others.
Now, I see the value in growth over success, in effort over inherent talent. I’ve learned to appreciate the journey, not just the destination. While I still enjoy those moments when the world aligns perfectly, I no longer need them to feel complete. I’ve learned that being “different” doesn’t mean being better and that true self-worth comes from within, not from the fleeting affirmations of a cold winter night.
The Burden of Being Number One
John McEnroe was no ordinary man. Talent coursed through his veins like a relentless river, pushing him to heights most could only dream of. For four years, he stood atop the world as the number-one tennis player, a place where the air was thin and the accolades endless. But there was a price to pay for living at the summit, and McEnroe knew it all too well.
You see, McEnroe had a fixed mindset, a belief that talent was everything. He didn’t savor the challenge or revel in the joy of learning. Instead, he clung to his natural gifts as though they were a lifeline, fearing that he might drown in mediocrity. This mindset left him brittle and prone to breaking when the waters got rough. And break he did, more often than he would like to admit.
But talent, oh, what a double-edged sword it is. McEnroe’s was so immense and undeniable that it carried him to the top despite his inner turmoil. Yet, even there, in the rarefied air of greatness, he found himself haunted by the need to prove his superiority, to assert his dominance over everything—even sawdust.
Yes, sawdust. During one match, McEnroe reached for the sawdust to absorb the sweat from his hands, only to find it wasn’t his liking. The sawdust, ground too fine—might as well have been rat poison to McEnroe. In a rage, he knocked over the can with his racket, screaming at his agent, Gary, who dashed over, panic in his eyes.
“You call that sawdust?” McEnroe bellowed, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. “This looks like rat poison. Can’t you get anything right?”
Gary, ever the dutiful servant to his master’s whims, ran off and returned twenty minutes later with a fresh can of coarser sawdust. He was twenty dollars poorer, having paid a union employee to grind up a two-by-four. That’s what it was like to be number one—a world where even the most minor details had to bow to your every desire.
McEnroe relished these moments of power, these little reminders that he was different, better, and superior. He thrived on the adulation and sense of entitlement that came with his status. The world bent to his will, and he didn’t mind it. Would you?
But beneath the surface of his fixed mindset, a lurking question gnawed at him in the quiet moments: If you’re somebody when you’re successful, what are you when you’re not? It haunted him, even as he basked in the glory of being number one.
Contrast this with Michael Jordan, a man who could have quickly fallen into the same trap. Jordan, too, was heralded as a god among men, his greatness proclaimed from the rooftops by fans and critics alike. But Jordan was different. He didn’t see himself as inherently superior but knew the blood, sweat, and tears that had gone into honing his craft. He was a human being like everyone else, albeit one who had pushed himself farther than most.
Jordan’s humility was a byproduct of his growth mindset, a belief that people can develop their abilities and that talent was just the starting point. He didn’t need to be better than others to feel good about himself. He knew that his journey was his own and that success resulted from hard work, not some predetermined greatness.
And then there was Chuck Yeager, the legendary pilot who shattered the sound barrier and defied the odds. In Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff, Yeager, people worldwide portray him as the epitome of courage and skill. Yet, Yeager himself would be the first to tell you that there’s no such thing as a natural-born pilot. Nature didn’t hand his success to him on a silver platter; he earned it through years of hard work and relentless practice. Like Jordan, Yeager understood that being the best wasn’t about being born with some extraordinary gift. It was about stretching yourself farther than anyone else.
But what of those who believe in fixed traits, who measure their worth by their success? They live in a world of constant comparison, where every victory validates their superiority, and every failure threatens their identity. A cycle of needing to prove trapped them, assert, and dominate while wondering what they’ll become when success fades.
Ultimately, the burden of being number one isn’t the weight of the trophies or the pressure of the spotlight. It’s the unrelenting need to prove that you’re unique, superior, and entitled to more. It’s the fear that without success, you’re nothing at all.
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