The title of this article makes me giggle. It almost seems like a joke because it represents the exact opposite way I was taught to think — the irony is actually palpable. Friends, family, and fellow peers who read this are probably scoffing at the fact that I am writing this, because if they knew anything about how I grew up, who raised me, and whom I was surrounded by, they couldn't even dream of the day when I would accept anything less. However, if you are reading this and are thinking that I am the kid who was pushed too hard and subsequently cracked, you're not at fault for thinking that.

But it's not true. I didn't crack. My way of thinking did.

Now please let me assure you that I am not advocating for complacency, but rather a change of perspective. Much of you probably grew up like I did. You had parents who loved you so much that they wanted you to succeed at everything you did. They wanted you with the gold medal, the A-plus on your chemistry test, the gold cord wrapped around your graduation gown symbolizing the most community service hours. They wanted the world for you., out of love — which is not a bad thing. But what I find so unfortunate about this typical scenario is that we live in a culture that perpetuates the idea that tangible success is the key to happiness.

My parents threw me into five sports before the age of 10. I wasn't forced into all of them — I happily obliged. I ended up choosing soccer. And after I chose soccer to focus on, that's the last time I ever remember playing for just the fun of it. Club soccer became more intense as we fought for starting positions and playing time. Soon, I was in high school, and coaches started talking about playing at the collegiate level. Then it became business, and only business. Like a job, I had fun when I did well and I had fun when I succeeded. But when I didn’t play well, like a job, when I pissed off my coach or superior, it was not fun. It altered every part of my life. Life seemed to hinge on my performance in a game. I knew it was unhealthy, but I didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t know another way. I didn’t know there was another option. Teachers, friends, coaches and others always reminded me that success was a choice. I could choose to play well, I could choose to succeed. But, newsflash, I don’t remember ever stepping on a field or walking into an exam, saying, “I think I’m going to perform poorly. Let’s mix it up a little.” Yeah, that never happened. But for some reason, my lack of performance always summed up to “You didn’t want it enough.” And until the late age of 19, I soon realized why I never had a respectable answer to that convicting statement.

But I know it now. And it’s this: “No, I just wanted something else more.”

If you’re a person who thrives off of competition and the pursuit to the top, then I am happy for you if that’s what makes you feel like you have a purpose. But I began to realize that I am not that person. Once, I chose to put down my textbook the night before a physics test fully aware of how much I didn’t know, and chose to go to the midnight premiere of the new Hunger Games movie. So the 68 percent I received was completely warranted. Were my parents pleased? Not necessarily. But when I told them, their response was different from all the ones I had gotten before when I did poorly on an assignment. I told them I went to the premiere instead. And they looked at me and just said, “OK, well, you know why you got that grade. You made a choice.” And I looked at them, with no regret, and I smiled and said, “Yes I did.” I chose a good time with my friends instead of a good grade on a test.

But I also chose an experience rather than a grade. Now, I am not saying that you should abandon your pursuits of academic success. However, I chose not to care about that one physics test and decided that my friends were more important rather than the possible good grade on my test. I have no regrets — because my friends make me happier than a good grade ever will.

It may seem like a small and insignificant example, but I view it as a microcosm for the larger things that we will all encounter in our lives. At some point, the pursuit of excellence on the field, in the office, or wherever else will reach a point of diminishing marginal returns. In other words, that extra A instead of a B will start to return less than it used to. And it’s not your fault. It’s not due to your inadequacy as a student or employee or player. It’s because at some point you realize you want more. You want more than just a 4.0, or the leading goal-scoring record. You want something beyond the tangible. Because it always seems like the things that actually mean the most are the ones we can’t show off. When I score a goal, it’s not the act of me scoring that makes me feel on top of the world. It’s my teammates hugging me afterwards and me knowing that I didn’t let them down. That I contributed to something bigger than myself. That I did something to help others. And as soon as I realize that something is benefiting only me, that's the point of diminishing marginal returns. That is the point where I choose to pursue something else that reaps benefits beyond myself.

The night I didn’t study for my test was the night my best friend told me her parents were going to get a divorce. And, as she told me in tears, I realized how grateful I was to be able to lend an ear. To me, that’s way more important than getting an A. It’s those little moments that give me purpose. Obviously, I still work hard in school and on the soccer field. I still strive to be the best I can be. But I realized that my purpose is rooted in being the best person I can be. I want to be the best daughter. The best friend. The best girlfriend. I want to be something that means something to someone else. The A on the test, the record, or the promotion would all be nice to have. I am not going to pretend like I don’t care about those things because I do. And I still strive for tangible goals. I still strive for A’s in my classes and for goals on the field. However, it’s only one measure of success. There’s a much less apparent one. And to me, that’s the one that matters most, even if you can't see it. I still can.