The treadmill
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Gratitude and ambition aren’t opposites. They’re the only two things that keep each other from becoming dangerous.
Ed Catmull spent twenty years trying to make a computer-animated film. He’d wanted it since he was a kid watching Disney movies in the 1950s, realized he couldn’t draw, and decided to find another way. He got a PhD in computer science. He worked at Lucasfilm. He co-founded Pixar with Steve Jobs in 1986 and spent the next nine years building toward the thing he’d been chasing since childhood.
In November of 1995, Toy Story came out and changed animation forever. One week later, Pixar went public in the biggest IPO of the year. Catmull had achieved the goal that had defined his professional life since he was old enough to have one.
And then something happened that he didn’t expect and couldn’t explain. He felt lost.
“Everything was going our way,” he wrote later, “and yet I felt adrift. In fulfilling a goal, I had lost some essential framework.” He started asking himself a question that confused him: Is this really what I want to do? He kept the doubts to himself. He loved Pixar, loved what it stood for, loved the people. But the dream that had organized his entire life was now behind him, and he didn’t have another one.
He didn’t burn out or fail. He got exactly what he wanted and discovered that getting it had quietly removed the thing that had been driving him forward for two decades.
The engine that doesn’t stop
There’s a press conference clip from the 2009 NBA Finals that I’ve watched more times than I should probably admit. The Lakers are up 2-0 against the Orlando Magic. A reporter asks Kobe Bryant why he doesn’t look happy. His team is halfway to a championship. Kobe stares at the reporter like the question doesn’t make sense. “What’s there to be happy about? The job’s not finished. Is the job finished? I don’t think so.”
That clip gets shared as a motivational moment, and I understand why. There’s something magnetic about someone who refuses to coast. But I’ve started seeing something else in it too. Kobe won five championships. He said he was in the gym the same time after winning a championship as he was after losing fifty games. His entire identity was organized around never being satisfied, and he talked about that engine like it was his greatest gift.
I wonder sometimes what it cost him to never be able to sit inside a win.
Catmull got everything he wanted and felt lost because the arrival removed his sense of purpose. Kobe’s version was different but the result was the same. His operating system wouldn’t let him register any achievement as enough. One felt empty after reaching the summit. The other couldn’t acknowledge the summit existed.
The false belief
Harvard psychologist Tal Ben-Shahar experienced this firsthand as a young elite squash player. He believed that winning a major tournament would make him happy. He won. He was happy. And then, in his words, “the same stress and pressure and emptiness returned.” He spent years studying why, and eventually coined a term for it: the arrival fallacy. The false belief that reaching a valued destination can sustain happiness.
The research behind it is uncomfortable if you’re someone who runs on ambition. Our “wanting” drive, neurologically, is more powerful than our “liking” drive. The brain is wired to chase, not to hold. We evolved in scarcity, so the machinery that pushes us toward the next thing is louder and more persistent than the machinery that says stop and appreciate what’s here. Achievement triggers a burst of dopamine, and then the baseline resets, often within days. The goal that was supposed to change everything becomes the new normal, and the brain starts scanning for the next target.
Ambition, left on its own, is a treadmill that speeds up every time you hit a milestone.
What I kept missing
I don’t have Catmull’s resume or Kobe’s rings, but I recognized the pattern the first time I read about it. There was a stretch last year where I hit a string of milestones with the podcast and the newsletter within a few weeks of each other. Numbers I’d been chasing for months. Each one landed, and each time I felt good for about a day. Maybe two. Then my brain was already on to what needed to happen next.
My fiancée pointed it out before I saw it myself. She said something like, “You never actually celebrate anything. You just move the target.” I started to argue, and then I realized I was doing it in real time. She was congratulating me and I was already listing the three things I hadn’t done yet.
That moment stuck with me because it made visible something I’d been doing for years without noticing. I’d trained myself to treat every achievement as a waypoint, never a destination. And I’d been telling myself that was discipline. That was ambition. That was what separated people who build things from people who settle.
But there’s a difference between refusing to settle and refusing to feel what you’ve built. The first one keeps you moving. The second one just keeps you empty.
Two different jobs
Most advice on this topic treats gratitude and ambition as two ends of a spectrum. Be grateful for what you have. Stay hungry for what you want. Find the balance. But I don’t think it’s a balance problem. I think they’re actually doing two completely different jobs.
Ambition is the engine. It tells you where to go. Gratitude is something different entirely. It’s the ability to register where you already are, to actually feel the ground under your feet instead of scanning the horizon for the next hill. Without ambition, you stagnate. You stop building things that scare you a little. Without gratitude, you can’t feel your own life. You achieve things and register them as checkboxes instead of experiences. You build something real and treat it like a rung on a ladder to somewhere else.
Catmull figured this out, eventually. After the disorientation of achieving his lifelong dream, he didn’t abandon ambition. He replaced it with a new one: figuring out why successful companies fail from the inside. That question drove the next nineteen years of his career. And somewhere in the middle of it, the shift happened. He stopped organizing his life around a destination and started building a relationship with the process itself. He wrote that the realization that kept him motivated wasn’t a new summit. It was that paying attention, being vigilant about the forces that destroy creative cultures, was a mission that never ended.
He didn’t stop being ambitious. He stopped needing arrival to feel like the work mattered.
What I’ve been practicing
I started doing something small about three months ago that I didn’t expect to change much. At the end of each week, before I start planning the next one, I write down three things I built that week that I’m genuinely proud of. The actual work, not the metrics. A conversation I had on the podcast that went somewhere unexpected. A paragraph in the newsletter that said exactly what I meant. A decision I made that felt right even though it was hard.
It takes about two minutes. And what surprised me is that it doesn’t slow down the ambition. If anything, it sharpens it. Because when you can actually feel what you’ve already built, you stop chasing milestones out of emptiness and start chasing them out of momentum. The wanting doesn’t go away. It just stops being the only thing you can hear.
Kobe said “the job’s not finished” like it was a strength, and maybe it was. But I keep thinking about what it would look like to hold that same intensity while also being able to sit in a locker room after a win and think: I built this. This is real. This matters. And then get back to work on Monday.
You can be hungry and thankful at the same time. That’s not a contradiction. That’s the whole game.
Catmull spent twenty years reaching for a dream. He got it. And the most important thing he did next wasn’t finding a bigger one. It was learning to stay inside the work without needing the finish line to make it count.
So maybe the question isn’t whether you’re grateful enough or ambitious enough.
It’s whether you can feel what you’ve built while you’re still building.
Thank you for reading,
— Scott
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