The Smell of Pretense (Or: A Cautionary Tale About Freedom Bankruptcy)

A familiar smell in an unfamiliar place.

I've been here before. Not this exact place, but many just like it. The heavy door creaks open, having wandered up the long, scalloped and manicured drive. My chariot—I feel inclined to call my truck that—comes to rest under the colonnade, the portico a nod to decades past.

In I go, and the breeze hits me with the aroma.

Here we go. My nose filled with pretense.

Despite never having been to this particular club, I seemed to know my way around. I found my way to the lounge, because it was right where it should be. Were all these places designed by the same people?

Rich green carpeting flanking the floors. The walls a cornucopia of walnuts, mahogany, and heritage oaks. The lights dim enough as if to say, "don't worry, no one will see the real you inside these walls."

And the patrons move about with that exact confidence. Charade intact.

That's where I found Kevin.

The Quiet Part Out Loud

This meeting was his request, and so was the location. I respect what he was trying to broadcast to me. The quiet part out loud.

"I need help, but as you can see I don't really need help—I have it all figured out." - smug and defeated

This should be the slogan on all these membership cards.

As I sat down, I don't even need to tell you what drink was offered to me. You know the cliché well enough by now.

And so we began.

I often find myself explaining that the work I do is "help the people who have checked every box and still have nothing to show for it."

This might be perplexing, as the membership to this particular club is six figures, and the cars in the valet lot are many more figures. Surely they have lots to show for those checked boxes.

And yet, here I am. Again. Another successful person who has achieved everything he set out to—and still, despite all of that, feels hollow.

The Human Condition Remains

This isn't because these people are shallow, or soulless as society might have you believe. They aren't fallow humans. They aren't really any different than any human.

And I'd know. I've worked with everyone in between—from the homeless to the regulars of societies like this one.

The human condition remains. People in pursuit. It differs only by degree, not kind.

Kevin was the CEO of a company you likely know by name, and I'll leave out. His home is in a zip code you probably know too. And the cars in his garage(s)—yes, plural—are aspirational.

And no, Kevin is not his real name. Save your Google search for something constructive.

Kevin feels disconnected at home. Distant from his wife of eighteen years. His kids, he feels, barely recognize him—and surely don't appreciate all he's done for them.

He's on the precipice of a big decision.

"What do I do next?" he simply cuts right to it.

Equal parts not-so-humble brag and cry for help.

My response was equally clipped: "I don't know. I don't even know you."

The List

He rattled off the things he was considering that might give him some sense of achievement.

Another house. A more rare car. And yes, even a bigger boat. He also threw out: search for a new position, join another club. And, at risk of alienating him, find a mistress.

As cliché as these all may be—and to those of us who do not have access to choices like this, this list could seem outright infuriating as we all navigate this zero-sum idea of have and have not—Kevin was not alone. And for the record, the world is not zero sum.

His degree of distraction and desire might be outlandish to most, but it's not that different than the average people I meet with.

Their list is the same.

Another child. Trade up their house. Chase a promotion. Buy the car they've always wanted. Etc.

Kevin's list started here. And it grew. And so did his bankruptcy.

Freedom Bankruptcy

Not financial bankruptcy. Freedom bankruptcy. Although his expenses ballooned, he had enough money, but paradoxically he had no freedom.

Despite having all the luxuries you might think freedom affords, another cliché abounds: that which we own ends up owning us.

As we choose desire, we enter into a contract. As Naval Ravikant would say, a contract to partner with suffering until we achieve the desire.

But no one really talks about what comes next.

Because those things we covet are once pursuits of passion, but upon achievement, they become missions of protection.

Big houses and big estates don't come with freedom. They come with a new prison. You have to fight to keep and preserve them.

This is what I call the Achievement Prison—the psychological and practical trap that successful people create through the very behaviors and perspectives that initially created their success. The prison bars aren't made of failure. They're made of success itself.

Kevin, just like all of us, displaced so much energy into the pursuit of that which is mimetic, he lost sight of that which is ecological.

Simply put, he doesn't even remember what makes him, him.

He conflated that with what he's achieved.

The Mimetic Trap

There's a distinction that matters here, and it's the distinction between mimetic desire and ecological desire.

Mimetic desire is borrowed desire. It's wanting what you want because other people want it. It's chasing what others define as success—the cars, the club memberships, the houses in the right zip codes, the titles, the status symbols. It's consumption-based rather than creation-based. Externally validated. Competitive comparison driving decisions.

Ninety-nine percent of people do not have freedom because they chase mimetic consumption instead of ecological awakening.

Ecological desire is different. It's personally defined based on your values and calling. It's building toward your ideal life design. Internally validated. Unique to your circumstances and desires.

Kevin had spent two decades in mimetic pursuit. He'd achieved everything the scoreboard said he should want. And now he sat across from me in a club designed to remind him of his success, asking the question that mimetic achievement can never answer:

"What do I do next?"

The honest answer? Wrong question.

The right question is: "Who do I want to become?"

Because Kevin had been so focused on what he wanted to achieve that he'd never stopped to ask who he wanted to be. And now, eighteen years and countless achievements later, he didn't recognize himself.

It's no surprise his wife of almost two decades of pursuit has found herself in bed with a stranger.

That stranger is her own husband.

The Identity Investment Trap

Here's what happens when success becomes identity:

The successful entrepreneur doesn't just run a business—they ARE a business owner. The high-achieving executive doesn't just perform well—they ARE a high achiever.

When success becomes identity, change feels like identity death.

Kevin couldn't imagine who he would be without the title, without the house, without the cars, without the club membership. Not because he was shallow—but because he'd never developed an identity separate from his achievements.

He'd invested everything into becoming successful. And in the process, he'd stopped becoming anything else.

This is the trap. The achievement prison isn't built by failure. It's built by success. And the more successful you become, the more elaborate the prison.

The Cautionary Tale

Most might hear this story and think little of it. After all, who feels bad for a guy like that?

I don't know. And I'm not asking you to.

What I am doing is sharing his story as a cautionary tale.

Because what I know to be true is that nine out of ten people would trade places with him for a fraction of what he has.

And here he is, sitting with me in this place, saying he would give it all up to get back to who he used to be.

Let that sink in.

The man who has everything would trade it all to remember who he was before he had anything.

This is what mimetic pursuit costs. Not money—Kevin has plenty of that. It costs identity. It costs presence. It costs the ability to answer the question "who am I?" with anything other than a list of accomplishments.

The Question That Changes Everything

There's a question I ask every client, usually early in our work together:

"Who do you want to ultimately become?"

Not what do you want to achieve. Not what do you want to have. Not what do you want to be known for.

Who do you want to become?

Most people have never been asked this question. They've been asked about goals, about dreams, about ambitions. But rarely about identity.

Kevin couldn't answer it. Not because he wasn't intelligent—he's brilliant. But because he'd never considered that who he became was separate from what he achieved.

This is the ecological question. It's the question that separates fulfillment from accomplishment, meaning from success, identity from achievement.

And it's the question that Kevin—and maybe you—has been avoiding.

The Way Out

The good news is that the achievement prison has a door. It's not easy to find, and it's harder to walk through. But it exists.

The first step is recognition: seeing the prison for what it is. Understanding that the strategies and perspectives that created success have become the barriers to fulfillment.

The second step is separation: distinguishing between who you are and what you've achieved. Recognizing that you are not your title, your net worth, your address, or your car.

The third step is excavation: digging beneath the achievements to find the person who existed before all of it. Remembering what made you you before you started conflating that with what you've done.

The fourth step is reconstruction: building an identity that can hold success without being consumed by it. Developing an ecological sense of self that doesn't depend on mimetic validation.

This is the work. It's not glamorous. It doesn't happen in clubs like this one, surrounded by mahogany and heritage oak. It happens in the quiet, in the uncomfortable, in the questions we'd rather not answer.

The Invitation

So here's my question for you:

Are you building a life, or building a prison?

Are you chasing what you actually want, or what you think you're supposed to want?

Do you know who you are separate from what you've achieved?

If Kevin's story sounds familiar—if you've checked the boxes and still feel hollow, if you've achieved the goals and still feel empty, if you have everything and still want to trade it all to remember who you used to be—then maybe it's time to ask a different question.

Not "what do I do next?"

But "who do I want to become?"

That's the question that leads out of the prison.

Schedule a Diagnostic here: [link]

Because the smell of pretense fades eventually.

And what's left is just you—whoever that is.

Now go be great.