“Hello, My question isn’t about my family — things at home are fine. It’s about work. I just can’t handle anything that feels like a competition. The moment there’s even a hint of rivalry — for a project, for budget, for recognition — my energy drops. In my previous role, I worked independently, delivered my part, and was valued for it. Now the structure has changed, and suddenly I’m expected to ‘compete’ with colleagues. I can feel myself pulling back before anything even starts. It’s exhausting.” (Email from a 37-year-old man)
“We have a high-potential employee, but I’ve noticed a recurring pattern: whenever he’s offered a major opportunity — a lucrative contract, media exposure, or a step up in his field — his momentum drops. Deadlines slip, responses are delayed, and the opportunity eventually fades away.” (Observation from an HR Director)
“I’d like to book a session to talk about my career. I’ve been turning down leadership roles, speaking opportunities, and projects that would put me in the public eye. Even though I know I’m capable, I avoid moves that would make me too visible. It feels like success could put a target on my back.” (Request from a client)
What unites all these stories is the underlying belief that success, wealth, and big opportunities belong to someone else. Not to them.
Sometimes this belief hides in plain sight — dressed up as modesty, “not wanting to play games,” or simply preferring to stay in your lane. But when we look closer, it often has deep roots in early family life, where certain patterns of love, loyalty, and safety shaped how achievement feels today.
The Man Who Feared Winning
The case of a man who sidesteps any form of workplace rivalry — not out of laziness, but out of something far deeper — is worth unpacking.
For David, the roots of this reluctance go all the way back to childhood.
He was the oldest of three boys. The gap with the second was barely more than a year, with the youngest about three years behind. In those early, formative years — when a child naturally pushes away from his mother and tests himself against his father — David was removed from both. First came a period living with extended family, then a boarding-style preschool where he stayed through the week. When he finally returned home at six, it was with a role already assigned: “Keep an eye on your brothers.”
The message embedded in that assignment was clear. Not “you are loved even when you’re difficult,” but “you are accepted when you’re useful.”
And that message shaped how he experienced competition.
David doesn’t crumble in defeat — in fact, losing barely registers. What unravels him is victory.
“If I lost, fine. You get up, you try again. But if I won? That’s when the storm hit. My middle brother would immediately demand a rematch, complete with new rules that mysteriously favored him. The youngest would collapse into wails on the floor until an adult intervened — and then I’d be the one in trouble. The lecture was always the same: ‘Let him win, he’s smaller.’ The implication? That holding my ground proved I didn’t care about anyone but myself.”
Unsurprisingly, his first professional environment echoed the emotional weather of his early years: a single authoritarian boss, constantly shifting expectations, a rotating list of favorites and outcasts. Victories could vanish overnight — what was celebrated on Friday was meaningless by Monday.
When David secured a major account after months of exhausting work, the reward he’d been promised was quietly shared with a colleague the boss preferred at the moment.
He left abruptly, took weeks to recover, and eventually joined a new company. But after a few good years, bonus season revealed the same old ending: someone else needed it more. The pattern wasn’t coincidence. It was repetition — the psyche returning to a familiar script.
And that’s exactly the kind of loop that therapy is designed to help untangle.
The Man Who Held Himself Back for His Mother
Sometimes a person’s hesitation isn’t about skill or motivation — it’s about loyalty to someone they love.
Evan grew up with just his mother. She worked long hours, often cleaning houses for wealthy families who, in his eyes, treated her with little respect. He saw how tired she came home, heard the comments she made about “rich people” and how they behaved. Without anyone spelling it out, he took on an unspoken rule: we’re not like them, and we don’t want to be.
In his thirties, Evan had the chance to take big steps forward — a high-paying contract, a TV appearance, even a book deal. But each time, something strange happened.
“I’d start dragging my feet,” he said. “I’d miss emails, push deadlines, and let things fall through. It’s like I’d step back right before the finish line.”
It wasn’t laziness. Deep down, success felt like crossing over to “the other side” — the side of the people who had looked down on his mother. Achieving his goals felt like betraying where he came from.
Only in therapy did he start to separate his story from hers, learning that building his own success didn’t mean turning his back on her.
The Woman Who Learned to Stay Out of Sight
Clara’s career looked steady and respectable from the outside, but anyone who knew her could see she was playing far below her true potential.
She grew up in a wealthy family, with all the privileges it brings — private schools, travel, a large home. But money in her childhood also came with risk. Her father’s business attracted unwanted attention, and there were moments when threats became real enough to change routines or bring in extra security. Clara’s mother drilled in the same warning: don’t stand out, don’t flaunt what you have.
That message stayed with her. As an adult, she often turned down leadership roles, avoided public speaking, and passed on projects that would make her more visible.
“It’s not about whether I can do it,” she told me. “It’s that being noticed feels unsafe.”
Her early experiences had built a strong link in her mind: visibility equals danger. And so she built her life to be capable but small — always present, never in the spotlight.
Therapy became a place to explore that link and slowly create a new one, where stepping forward could feel not just possible, but safe.