I’ve always found it fascinating how the beliefs we hold about ourselves are often formed long before we have the ability to question them. Somewhere along the way—maybe in childhood, maybe later—we absorb messages about who we are, how people see us, and what we can expect from the world.

The other day, I had the unique privilege to chat with a particular executive. Averaging a 20.6% growth rate over the past 15+ years, working in the healthcare industry, he had transitioned to speaking. I was put in contact with him via my executive coach.

Much like the boilerplate conversation you’ll get from a therapist, he broke down the idea that we still hold a lot of trauma from our childhoods. It’s something he called a “trigger.”

He called it a trigger. I knew what mine was—I called it unlovable.

Maybe it started on the playground—that moment when you realize the other kids aren’t quite including you the way they do with everyone else. Maybe it was the subtle shifts in tone from friends over the years, or the way professional relationships became purely transactional. The feeling that you can be admired but not necessarily loved. That people appreciate what you bring to the table, but they don’t stick around for you.

When I was a kid, I felt like the family’s golden goose, the big ticket out. There was always this pressure—sometimes spoken, sometimes just understood—that I was supposed to be something, achieve something. My dad had high expectations for me in everything—academics, athletics, whatever the challenge was. I got my first job at 13, and I haven’t stopped working since. Once I started, there was no turning back. Work, success, performance—these weren’t things I accomplished—they were the things that defined me.

I remember being around ten years old when my dad started making me run with him. He’d wake me up at 5:15 AM, on the dot. Three miles, every weekend. But it wasn’t just about running. There was this set of hills, and I was expected to run them. No set limit on repetitions—I was to run them, up and down, until I threw up. We’d do it again the next weekend, and the one after that. It continued for three years.

It taught me a valuable lesson—I learned to push through things. I had to endure. I had to perform.

But I also learned something else, something I never consciously realized until much later: I was only as good as what I could produce.

Somewhere along the way, I started feeling less like a person and more like a machine. Like I was built for output—for getting things done, for meeting expectations, for being useful. It became deeply intertwined with my identity. When you start seeing yourself that way, it’s easy to believe that’s all you are to other people too. Not someone they care about, just someone who does things. I was a vessel, with a clear function, used as a means to an end.

And maybe that’s why, as I got older, I started feeling this quiet, aching sense of distance between myself and other people. Not necessarily because of anything they did, but because deep down, I never really believed I was someone they’d want to keep around for me.

Because if all you are is output, eventually people stop needing what you provide.

And if people don’t need you, then why would they stay?

I don’t have a perfect answer for this. I wish I had a resolution tied up neatly with a bow. But I do have legs. If I could run hills until I threw up for three years, I can probably figure this one out too.

Equally, perhaps out of habit, I still find myself waking up at 5:15 AM every morning to go for a run.