It’s tempting to fake it—to climb the hill, win the trophy, bask in the recognition for a job well done. But the illusion doesn’t last. No matter how high you climb, there’s always someone higher: better looking, better performing, better everything. The alpha at the summit.
And then there’s the rest of us, somewhere down the slope—or at the bottom of the heap, where recognition never comes. We go unnoticed, unworthy in the eyes of the ladies with flowers in their hats at the Kentucky Derby, or the men in shiny boots at the front of the hunt. They chase the fox with an elegance so detached from the raw reality of the world. Maybe I’m biased—speaking as someone who feels more like the barrel’s dregs than the diamond atop it—but I can’t help but think: they are the ones most out of touch with life, with nature. Their world sparkles, but it’s a veneer.
And yet, I’ve chased that glitter too. Growing up in Detroit, in a place that valued the roar of engines and the gleam of polished metal, I followed society’s blueprint for success. Exotic cars reflected my ego. A private plane, multiple homes, and enough carbon footprint for a small village became my trophies. I lived to be seen, though I never truly fit. The pursuit wasn’t fulfillment—it was a distraction. A desperate bid to outrun the nagging sense that I’d never quite measure up.
Now I see it for what it was: a machine—I was a machine—destroying the world in the name of progress and status. I try to stop. I’ve scaled down, abandoned the chase. But the truth doesn’t change: I lived a life of excess. My past is etched into the carbon-heavy skies, the warming oceans, the storms that grow fiercer each year. No penitence can erase it.
But I can try. I live simply now, in a small house, far from the crowd. I see myself as one of the poorest among the rich—a member of the 95th percentile, perhaps, but what good is that? It’s a space that feels lonely and unsatisfying, caught between the wealthiest who soar and the majority who struggle to survive.
In this place of solitude, I wrestle with the damage I’ve done and the damage we all continue to do. Around me, people seem oblivious to the destruction their choices cause. The SUVs, the constant consumption, the unchecked emissions—it all carries on as if the earth isn’t crying out for relief. Sometimes, I wonder if my own isolation is a form of punishment, or maybe it’s just the result of a life lived out of sync with the world.
I think about joining a group, connecting with others who feel the same—a community of voices who see the problem for what it is. But even that feels like a kind of performance. Instead, I work alone, surrounded by people I don’t relate to, people I once might have judged for their lack of wealth or education. And yet, I am no better. If anything, I might be worse—because I’ve seen the damage and contributed to it anyway.
It’s hard to live with the knowledge of your own complicity. To recognize that the path you walked wasn’t just yours—it was society’s, and you followed it willingly, even eagerly. I’ve tried to make amends, but it’s like shouting into a storm: small, fleeting, and barely heard.
Still, there’s a flicker of hope. Maybe, if I can share these thoughts—if others can see themselves in my reflections—they might pause. Just for a moment, they might think about their choices, the destruction we’re all complicit in. And if enough moments like that happen, perhaps we can start to wake up. Not just to the damage we’ve done, but to the possibility of doing better.
It’s not too late to change. The earth hasn’t given up on us yet, even as we’ve pushed it to the brink. So I’ll keep trying, even if it feels futile. Because trying is the only way to turn this tide—and because we owe it to the world, and to ourselves, to try.
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