Stop pretending you don’t care

What happens when you stop playing it cool and start owning your ambition out loud

Kids have this superpower that most adults have lost: they can declare exactly what they want without an ounce of embarrassment. No qualifying statements, no self-deprecating jokes, no downplaying their ambitions.

When my daughters were little—Sean was just seven and Ella three—I experienced this unfiltered honesty firsthand. I was making dinner while they sat at our kitchen island coloring. Without looking up from her paper, Sean suddenly announced with absolute conviction: "When I grow up, I'm going to be rich. I'll have a mansion and twenty dogs."

Before I could stop myself, I heard these words tumble out: "Oh Seany, money isn't everything. You know, a medium-sized house can be just as nice. And maybe two or three dogs would be more manageable."

The crayon in her hand paused mid-stroke. She gave me that look children give adults when we've said something profoundly disappointing.

That night, after tucking them in, I found myself replaying the interaction. Why had I been so quick to dampen her enthusiasm? Why did her perfectly innocent childhood dream make me so uncomfortable that I felt compelled to immediately temper it?

The truth hit me with surprising force: My daughter wasn't afraid to want something boldly, publicly, without qualifiers or apologies. But somewhere along the way, I had learned to be.

When exactly did this happen to us? At what point did we absorb the message that it's somehow gauche or unsophisticated to name our ambitions out loud? That the "cooler" position is to act like we don't care that much, to downplay our desires, to pretend our dreams are smaller than they actually are?

I see this pattern everywhere now. The aspiring novelist who tells everyone it's "just a little story I'm playing around with," not the book they've been meticulously crafting for three years. The entrepreneur who describes their business as "this small thing I'm trying" rather than the venture they've poured their heart and savings into. The artist who minimizes their work as "just a hobby" when it's actually their greatest passion.

We shrink our dreams in public, as if protecting them from the harsh light of scrutiny. But I've come to believe we're not really protecting our dreams from others' judgment. We're protecting ourselves from the vulnerability of wanting something we might not get.

Because that's the thing about naming what you want: once you've said it out loud, you can be held accountable to it. You can fail at it. People can watch you try and not succeed. And that exposure feels terrifying.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, especially after watching Timothée Chalamet's acceptance speech at the SAG Awards. After winning for his portrayal of Bob Dylan, he said something refreshingly direct: "I want to be one of the greats." He listed actors he admired, from Viola Davis to Daniel Day-Lewis, and essentially declared his intention to join their ranks.

In an era of ironic detachment where authentic striving is often labeled "cringe," his naked ambition felt revolutionary. We're starting to see this shift elsewhere too—like with Doechii, who recently won Best New Artist at the Grammys. A video of her from five years ago resurfaced where she talked about getting fired from her job but doubling down on her creative dreams, mentioning The Artist's Way as part of her journey. Five years later, she's holding a Grammy.

This journey from naming what you want to achieving it isn't accidental. It follows a path that, in many ways, mirrors training for a marathon. And just like with marathon training, each phase requires different skills, different mindsets, and different kinds of courage.

Photo by SeHee in NYC for Flytographer

You can't train for a goal you're afraid to name

Nobody accidentally runs a marathon. You don't just wake up one morning, lace up random sneakers, and somehow find yourself completing 26.2 miles. Marathon runners start by picking the race. They mark it on their calendar. They tell people. They accept that they might struggle publicly—but they name the marathon anyway.

Meanwhile, many of us are trying to accomplish the equivalent of a marathon in our careers and creative lives without ever saying what race we're running. We hope to somehow arrive at the finish line without admitting, even to ourselves, that we're on the course.

I did this for years. In my twenties, I was working as an executive assistant at a magazine, making about $55,000 a year. The job was fine. The pay was adequate—though it didn't go far in New York. But I had this thought that felt almost shameful: I want to make six figures.

Immediately, my inner critic arrived to shut it down. Who do you think you are? You're an assistant. People work for decades to reach that level.

What's interesting is that I didn't actually want to climb the traditional corporate ladder. I wanted to make six figures as an assistant—doing work I enjoyed and was good at, just being compensated better for it. The assistant role gave me something precious: time and mental space to pursue creative projects on the side. Unlike higher-level corporate jobs that consumed evenings and weekends, being an assistant meant I could clock out at 5pm with energy left for my own passions. But in our culture, wanting better pay without "advancing" seemed almost taboo—like I was breaking some unspoken rule about how careers should progress.

For weeks, I pushed the thought away. Then one day, I came across a job listing for an executive assistant at a hedge fund. Base salary: $85,000. With bonus structure, total compensation around $110,000.

My jaw literally dropped. I didn't know that kind of pay was possible for the work I was already doing. I applied immediately, got the job, and doubled my salary overnight.

Looking back, I realize something crucial: I would never have noticed that opportunity if I hadn't already secretly admitted to myself what I really wanted. If I hadn't begun to name that desire, however privately, I might have scrolled right past that listing, assuming it wasn't for someone like me.

This isn't just my personal experience. Research backs this up. Dr. Howard J. Klein, a professor at Ohio State University, led a fascinating study published in the Journal of Applied Psychology. He found that when people share their goals with someone they perceive as having higher status—a mentor, respected colleague, or boss—they're significantly more likely to stay committed and follow through.

Why? Because it creates what psychologists call "evaluation apprehension"—a fancy way of saying "I want to live up to their expectations." When someone you respect knows your goal, you take it more seriously. That's not pressure—it's fuel. It means your dream has weight, and it deserves that weight.

So if there's something you want? Say it. Say it to yourself. Say it to someone who believes in you. Because your dream deserves to be named—without shame, without apology.

The hidden training montage

We all love the training montage in movies—those brisk two-minute sequences where the protagonist transforms from novice to expert while upbeat music plays. One minute they're struggling to do a single push-up; the next, they're ready for the championship fight.

Real life doesn't work like that. The actual training—the part where you build the foundation for any meaningful achievement—is long, repetitive, and completely unglamorous. And most importantly, it's usually invisible to everyone but you.

I think about this every time someone compliments my apartment. By New York City standards, my place is pretty nice—three bedrooms, a backyard, a finished basement, and even a parking spot (practically unheard of in Brooklyn). People often remark how "lucky" I am.

What they don't see is the 25-year climb up the New York real estate ladder it took to get here.

They don't see my first apartment after college: a dingy two-story walk-up above a gynecologist's office, with a layout so cramped you had to walk through my bedroom to reach the kitchen. The building was falling apart; once, the front door jammed so completely that we were literally trapped inside the building. If there had been a fire, I wouldn't be here today writing this post.

They don't see the one-bedroom I moved to next, where I dealt with a mentally unstable downstairs neighbor who waged a decade-long campaign of harassment over imagined "noise." Even after installing wall-to-wall carpeting and taking absurd measures to step lightly, nothing appeased her. Still, I stayed for ten years because the space was large and the rent was stabilized.

They don't see the two-bedroom we moved to after our first baby was born—our first renovated apartment with an actual dishwasher (a life-changing luxury after 12 years of renting in New York)—only to discover a horrific bedbug infestation that the building management refused to properly address.

They don't see the three-bedroom brownstone apartment we moved to next, where I finally experienced the miracle of controlling my own heat (most New York pre-war buildings are centrally heated to unbearable temperatures—we're talking 85-90 degrees in February unless you keep all the windows wide open).

They just see where I ended up, not the two-and-a-half decades of gradual improvement, one slightly-less-problematic apartment at a time.

This is how most meaningful progress actually happens. Not in dramatic leaps but in small, consistent steps that nobody applauds, that never make it into the Instagram highlight reel.

Maybe for you it's not real estate. Maybe it's your career, your creative practice, your fitness journey, your relationships. Whatever it is, the same principle applies: the foundation gets built in the quiet, unglamorous daily work that nobody sees.

If you're in that invisible building phase right now—working a job that feels like a stepping stone, living in a place you've outgrown, developing skills in private—know this: You're not behind. You're in training.

This isn't some consolation prize or empty platitude. It's the truth about how lasting achievement works. The meaningful middle is where everything that matters actually happens.

When the wall hits you

The "wall" is a phenomenon that marathon runners know intimately. Usually around mile 20, after hours of running, the body rebels. Energy crashes. Legs turn to concrete. The mind begins a relentless campaign to get you to stop.

Every ambitious path has its own version of the wall—that moment when enthusiasm evaporates, doubt floods in, and the goal that once seemed so exciting now feels impossible, maybe even pointless.

I hit my wall a few years after our second daughter was born. I had left my hedge fund job to help my husband run our martial arts school, and it was one of the most demanding periods of my life. I was coming off the hormonal roller coaster of pregnancy and completely burned out from running this business.

There were constant conflicts—we were perpetually short-staffed, worked incredibly long hours, and faced non-stop drama with parents, students, and staff. We also had relentless problems with a neighboring business owner who ran a daycare facility. For some inexplicable reason, this guy had decided that our karate school was competing with his childcare business. His business was failing, and he blamed us for it, doing everything possible to sabotage us—including repeatedly calling the city to report us for running an "illegal daycare" (which we weren't; we taught karate).

To make matters worse, my father suddenly died that year. We had been estranged for most of my adult life, so the grief was complicated. It wasn't the clichéd guilt about being estranged—I never regretted that decision. But as a child, no matter how difficult things are with a parent, there's always a small part of you that hopes one day they'll become the parent you deserved. When they die, you realize with finality: this is it. This was the parent I got, and it's never going to change.

All of these pressures collided, and I experienced what I can only describe as a nervous breakdown. I knew I needed a complete break from the school, so I worked out an arrangement with Serge where I would take a few weeks off entirely—no going in at all. I needed that space to recover because the school had become such a massive source of stress.

During this break, I did something I'd always wanted to try but never had the chance: learning to surf. There's actually a small surfing community in the Rockaways in Queens, and I signed up for classes. I also started regular therapy, which helped tremendously, but surfing was unexpectedly healing.

Beyond the obvious benefits of escaping the urban environment for the ocean and nature, surfing itself is filled with metaphors that became therapy in action. You can't dodge an incoming wave by backing away—you have to paddle directly into it. Avoidance doesn't protect you; it just delays the impact. You can't control the waves—you can only learn to ride them, a reminder that life is unpredictable and fighting what you can't control is exhausting. And perhaps most importantly: wipeouts are part of the process. Falling isn't failure—it's feedback. Every wipeout gets you closer to mastering the ride.

Learning to work through my fear, get up on the board, and catch a wave rebuilt my self-esteem in ways I hadn't anticipated. Surfing gave me perspective, and that clarity helped me realize that this wasn't just burnout—I was no longer aligned with the life I had built.

After my break, I did return to the school because I still cared about the work and community. But deep down, I knew that chapter was closing. That space—both literal and metaphorical—gave me the courage to eventually pivot to something new.

This experience taught me something I'll never forget: hitting the wall doesn't always mean you're weak—or that the goal is wrong. But it is a sign you need to listen. Sometimes you need a break. Sometimes you need space to realize what's no longer working. And that's not quitting. That's clarity.

This aligns with fascinating research by Dr. Carsten Wrosch, a psychology professor at Concordia University in Montreal. In a study published in Social and Personality Psychology Compass, he and his team explored what they call "goal adjustment capacities"—how we respond when a goal we've been working toward starts to feel unattainable or misaligned.

What they found was powerful: the people who were able to let go of an unworkable goal and redirect their effort elsewhere reported better mental and physical health than those who just kept pushing. In other words—perseverance isn't always the answer. Sometimes, the strongest move is knowing when to pivot.

Race day: when your ambition becomes real

Race day is the part of the marathon everyone imagines being magical. You picture the music, the energy, the crowds. You think it's going to feel euphoric—like crossing a finish line in slow motion. But ask anyone who's actually run one, and they'll tell you the truth: race day is brutal. It's fast. It's intense. You have to keep pace. There's no more planning or prepping. You're in it. And everything counts.

Ambition has a race day too. It's the moment the thing you've been building in the dark finally gets seen. The moment the world shows up to watch you deliver.

For me, Race Day was hitting a million followers across our platforms. 600,000 on TikTok. 300,000 on Instagram. 100,000 on YouTube. We'd been sharing our family travels for years—creating content, building trust, showing up consistently. For a long time, it felt like we were building in the dark.

But suddenly, we weren't just posting—we were being seen. And everything changed. Brand deals picked up. Our inbox exploded. We were getting profiled, interviewed, featured. People recognized us in airports. Hotels rolled out red carpets.

It was exciting, but no one tells you how fast everything moves when it all clicks. There's no pause button. The content machine doesn't stop. The contracts keep coming. Your kids still need dinner. You're still running a business while running a home and a family.

I remember thinking, "This is it. This is the race I trained for." But I had to keep up. And that's the thing about race day: it's not a finish line. It's just the next mile—under pressure, in public, at full speed.

Race day isn't the dream. It's the delivery. It's the moment when hoping ends and performing begins. The only way to meet it is with presence, pacing, and a whole new kind of stamina.

A different kind of finish line

Everyone thinks the finish line is all about arriving. You picture the ribbon snapping, the feeling of "I did it," the crowd cheering. But many runners will tell you that the finish line isn't just the end—it's a reflection point. It's where you realize the race wasn't just about the destination, but about who you became getting there.

When I look back at the various chapters of my career—from corporate America to cultural commentator to martial arts school owner to travel influencer—it's not really about the external markers of success. It's about the courage it took to repeatedly become a beginner.

People look at my unconventional path and say, "Wow, you're fearless!" But the truth? I was scared every single time. I wasn't "qualified" for any of these roles on paper. I had no formal training in martial arts before opening a school. No background in travel content creation. No experience in the markets I entered.

But I was willing to be a beginner. To be awkward. To not know all the answers. To learn in public. And that's the part no one sees: how uncomfortable it feels to start from scratch, to ask "obvious" questions, to make rookie mistakes in front of others.

What makes the difference isn't fearlessness—it's the willingness to feel the fear and move forward anyway. To show up consistently until you build competence. I never stayed a beginner. In each field, I studied, practiced, and improved until eventually, people saw me as someone worth following, worth hiring, worth listening to.

Along the way, I failed constantly. I made embarrassing mistakes. I started things I didn't finish. I had ideas that never panned out.

I've launched countless side projects and Instagram accounts—luxury Disney travel, homeschooling content, AI marketing tips. Some flourished briefly before I realized they weren't for me. Others never gained traction at all. I tried them all, took them as far as they naturally went, and when I realized they weren't it, I let them go without dramatic announcements or self-flagellation.

Because that's the thing about ambition: it's not a straight line. It's a process of continuous experimentation, recalibration, and growth. Every attempt, whether it "succeeds" or not by external standards, teaches you something essential about what you value and how you want to contribute.

The key to navigating all that uncertainty? Self-compassion. Dr. Kristin Neff, a professor of educational psychology at UT Austin, is one of the leading researchers in this space. In a study published in Self and Identity, she and her team looked at how students handled academic failure. They found that those who practiced self-compassion—being kind to themselves instead of harsh—were far more likely to use adaptive coping strategies like positive reframing and acceptance.

In other words, they didn't spiral or beat themselves up. They gave themselves grace—and that grace helped them keep going. That matters especially when you're doing something new, when you're ambitious, when you're still becoming. If your inner voice is brutal every time you fall short, you'll stop running altogether. But if you can say, "This is hard, and I'm proud of myself anyway," that's the kind of inner strength that sustains momentum.

The real finish line isn't some fixed achievement. It's becoming someone who can navigate uncertainty with grace, who can pivot without shame, who can follow curiosity without needing to justify the journey to anyone else.

What race are you really running?

Here's what I believe after decades of chasing various forms of success: the bravest thing you can do is to name what you actually want, without downplaying it, without ironic distance, without pretending you don't care that much.

That clarity doesn't guarantee you'll get exactly what you're aiming for. Life is too complex, too full of unexpected turns for such certainty. But naming your ambition ensures that whatever path you end up on, it will be one aligned with your authentic desires, not one you drifted onto because you were afraid to choose.

So I'll ask you: What's the race you're secretly training for? What's the goal you downplay when people ask about your dreams? What's the ambition you've buried under layers of "I'm just exploring" or "It's not that serious"?

Whatever it is, it deserves to be named. Not just whispered to yourself at night, but spoken with conviction. Not necessarily broadcasted to the world if you're not ready, but at minimum, admitted fully to yourself and perhaps shared with someone whose opinion you value.

Because the truth is, you're already putting in the work. You're already in training. You're already feeling the fatigue and doubt and occasional exhilaration of the journey.

The only question is whether you'll keep pretending you're just out for a casual jog, or whether you'll finally admit—at least to yourself—that you're running a marathon.

So stop pretending you don't care. Name the thing. Want what you want. And run the race that's actually yours.

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Have you ever downplayed a dream because it felt too big—or too risky to admit out loud? What’s something you secretly want, but haven’t said out loud yet? Share your experience in the comments 👇

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Bring Carmen to your next event

Carmen Van Kerckhove is a writer and speaker whose work explores how technology intersects with social class and cultural change, reshaping the way we live and work. Her essays challenge conventional wisdom about success, ambition, and identity, offering a provocative lens on what comes next for a generation caught between collapsing systems and emerging possibilities.

Based in New York City, Carmen speaks at keynotes, conferences, leadership summits, and company retreats.

→ For speaking inquiries, contact info@topflightfamilymedia.com. Carmen’s speaker one-sheet is available for download here.

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