Success.

It’s a word we all strive for, isn’t it? The kind of success that makes you walk into a room and feel like you’ve won something big. A trophy. A promotion. A sprawling house with a kitchen island so massive it could have its own zip code. These are the images that come to mind when we think about success, and often, they’re the ones we’re taught to chase.

But what happens when life hands you a reality that doesn’t match the brochure? When the glossy images of success begin to fade, replaced by the dull ache of what’s actually in front of you?

I found myself asking these very questions while watching the devastating footage of the LA wildfires from my home on the East Coast.

Entire neighborhoods turned to ash, forcing people to rebuild not just their homes, but their very sense of stability and future. What does it mean to rebuild from nothing? And, more pressingly, what does it mean to redefine success in the aftermath of such loss?

I couldn’t imagine the heartbreak of watching everything you’ve worked for burn to the ground. But in the survivors, I saw something that felt familiar—resilience. In interviews, even amid their tears, they spoke with quiet defiance, with hope that somehow they could start over. This kind of strength, of standing up when the ground feels like it’s been pulled from beneath you, is what I began to think about in the context of my own life.

For the last 11 years, I’ve been living with cerebellar atrophy, a condition that affects my coordination. It’s like having a brain that struggles to communicate with the rest of my body—like an orchestra conductor whose baton falls to the floor mid-symphony, replaced by a wet spaghetti noodle. Every step I take, every movement I make, feels uncertain. And this uncertainty, this fragility of motion, is where I’ve come to understand a different kind of success.

For most people, success might look like running a marathon or finishing a project at work. For me, success is standing up without resembling a toddler on their first day of walking. It’s making it across the kitchen without clutching the counter for dear life. What once seemed like the simplest of tasks is now an achievement

At first, this felt like defeat—like I had somehow traded the lofty goal of “doing it all” for the humbling reality of struggling to do the basics. It was as if I’d gone from filet mignon to a soggy PB&J, and I wasn’t sure if I could stomach it.

But then, as I struggled to take each step, I realized something profound: small victories are not “less than.” They are transformative. Every step I take is a little victory—a quiet but monumental achievement that means more than any trophy ever could.

Each time I balance on my own without falling, it’s like scoring a touchdown in the Super Bowl. Every trip to the store without needing to lean on a cart feels like Bedtime Stories for the Living just won the Pulitzer Prize. These moments, though they seem trivial to others, are my own personal masterpieces—crafted from patience, muscle control, and sheer willpower. It’s a dance of resilience. And I’m a below-average dancer.

The more I redefined success for myself, the more I saw it everywhere.

Watching the wildfire survivors talk about rebuilding their lives struck a chord with me. In their words, I heard echoes of my own journey. Success isn’t defined by what’s lost, but by what’s still possible.

It’s not about the shiny moments or the grand gestures; it’s about the tiny, fragile moments of progress. It’s about showing up when the path seems impossible, even when the odds are stacked against you. It’s about embracing the discomfort and uncertainty, and finding the beauty in it.

Just like they must rebuild their homes, I must learn to rebuild my life, one wobbly step at a time.

Redefining success doesn’t shrink life—it reshapes it.

It’s less about the big milestones and more about the small, hard-won victories. It’s a humbling process, one that has taught me more about gratitude than any motivational speech or TED Talk ever could. In many ways, it’s a lesson in humility: learning that success isn’t always about triumph or perfection, but about the ability to keep going despite the odds.

So here’s my new definition of success: it’s getting up after a fall. It’s recognizing progress in the smallest moments, not in leaps. It’s finding the joy in the journey, even when your body insists on being the punchline of a bad joke.

Success isn’t a finish line to cross, but a dance—an awkward, wobbly, beautiful dance. Spaghetti noodle baton and all.

Maybe, in the end, success is less about what we achieve and more about what we can overcome. And if we can keep going, even when the world doesn’t look the way we expected it to, maybe we’re all succeeding in ways that are far more meaningful than we could ever imagine.

Be well,

Jay