As long as I can remember, I wanted to have a big life.
I grew up in post-Soviet Russia. At seven, I remember standing in line for bread that went around the block. At fifteen, I’d been given what felt like the chance of a lifetime: I won a year-long exchange program to the United States. My parents let me go without knowing which family would host me, or even what my address would be until later.
At eighteen, I discovered my first self-development book, about the power of mindset and a positive outlook, and wrote my first ten-year goals. I still have the blue notebook where I wrote them down, along with my lifetime goals. Many of those dreams came true. Some I outgrew. Some are still waiting for me.
In my twenties, deep into my Wall Street career, I was already dreaming past it, of making an impact, of influencing thousands of people. Maybe millions.
Eventually, I left finance for a few years to fulfill a childhood dream. I studied contemporary ballet and modern dance at the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre School and danced in New York City.
Then I returned to the fast-paced world of finance, this time traveling across the U.S. and Europe, teaching young minds hungry to build careers in the industry. I loved teaching. It was meaningful and fulfilling.
And still, I wanted more. More impact. More purpose. More positive influence.
After ten years, I left again and started my own coaching, speaking, and writing practice. Before long, I was coaching people around the world, and a few years later, my first book was published.
Some people were impressed. Inside, I still felt like it wasn’t enough.
No matter what I did, somehow my life still felt ordinary.
Then came the extraordinary blessing of becoming a mom at forty-one.
My daughter temporarily put the pursuit of a bigger life on pause, not because I had stopped dreaming, but because I was too tired to think about much beyond the preciousness of her. And also because I was just... physically tired.
When she started preschool, the pursuit came back, and it came back with a familiar voice. Working one on one with clients was no longer enough; I should be teaching groups, speaking on bigger stages, maybe even teaching technical skills again. I needed another endeavor, another part of the business, another way to grow. The thought underneath all of it was the same one I’d carried since the blue notebook: I need to do more for this to count.
And yet, somehow, life still felt ordinary.
Until moment after moment began showing me how precious this ordinary life actually was.
A close friend was diagnosed with breast cancer at forty-three. Another friend died before she turned thirty. Ordinary life suddenly didn’t seem so ordinary.
Moments like these created a pause.
So did looking into my three-year-old daughter’s eyes as she demanded that I keep twirling with her, despite my forty-something reality of getting dizzy much more quickly than I used to.
“Again, Mama!”
And so we twirled again.
I also have the privilege of hearing the honest truths of many women through my work, and I hear my own story in theirs more often than I expected. One client, a managing director who is highly accomplished and deeply respected by her colleagues, came home every night to a loving family and couldn’t fully arrive there. Her mind stayed at work, counting the deals she hadn’t closed yet and worrying whether there would be enough in the future, even in a year when she was doing well. What continually humbles and grounds me is how universal our hopes, dreams, fears, and pains really are.
There has never been anything particularly special or unique about my desire for a big life. At its heart, it is the genuine desire of a child who wants to explore this beautiful world, experience as much of it as possible, and leave something good behind.
There is nothing wrong with that desire.
I still want a big life. I still want to create, teach, write, contribute, travel, explore, and make a difference. I don’t think the desire for more is something we need to transcend or apologize for.
But I’m beginning to question the idea that the big life is somewhere ahead of us, waiting behind the next accomplishment, the next chapter, the next version of ourselves.
My daughter just turned four. When I catch my mind drifting back to work while we’re together, I look into her eyes, and she brings me back every time. This season is precious, and it is passing faster than I can hold it.
Maybe a big life isn’t only made of big moments.
Maybe it is also made of hundreds of ordinary Tuesdays we slowed down enough to notice.
My hope is that this gives you a pause to notice your own big life, the one already happening all around you. And if you’re living a big life on paper and still waiting to feel it, that’s often a pattern worth looking at together.