Little Karny absorbed. Adult Karny assesses.
I was sitting in bed with a coffee when it happened. Not a dramatic revelation. Not a life-changing event. Just one of those quiet adult moments that arrives before breakfast. The kind that sneaks up on you while you’re staring out a window, half-awake, trying to convince yourself to start the day.
My mom had recently told me that I was struggling because I was unlucky. Years ago, that sentence would have ruined my week. Maybe my month. Maybe longer. I would have turned it over in my head until it became part of me. Maybe I’m unlucky. Maybe something is wrong with me, and everyone else knows what they’re doing and I don’t. Maybe that’s why things aren’t working.
But this time my reaction was different. This time I just sat there and thought:
What are you talking about?
Not because I was angry. Not because I needed to defend myself. Because the statement simply didn’t make sense to me. I don’t think I’m unlucky. In fact, despite everything, I think I’m incredibly lucky. I have a healthy body. A curious mind. Ideas that keep me awake at night. A dog I love. A family that, while imperfect, still cares. The ability to start over when I need to. The ability to imagine a future that doesn’t exist yet. How exactly is that unlucky?
The older I get, the more I realize adulthood isn’t about learning what to believe. It’s about learning what not to believe. Especially when it comes from people you love.
When we’re children, we absorb everything. Parents, teachers, relatives, friends. Someone says you’re lazy. You believe it. Someone says you’re difficult. You believe it. Someone says you’re unlucky. You believe that too. Children don’t have filters. They don’t have enough life experience to challenge the stories being handed to them. So they carry those stories. Sometimes for decades.
One of the strangest parts of becoming an adult is realizing that the people who raised you can be wrong. Not evil. Not malicious. Not intentionally hurtful. Just wrong. They can love you deeply and still misunderstand you completely. That realization used to scare me. Now I find it freeing. Because once you understand that, you stop treating every opinion as a fact. You start asking questions. Is this true? Is this actually mine? Or did somebody hand this belief to me years ago and I never thought to give it back?
Recently, my mom compared me to a cousin who followed a more traditional path. A good education. A stable career. A strong income. The kind of life many parents dream of for their children. And honestly? Good for her. I mean that.
The older I get, the less interested I am in pretending that every life should look the same. Some people genuinely enjoy climbing the corporate ladder. Some people love structure. Some people want stability, predictability, and a clear path forward. There is nothing wrong with that. There is also nothing wrong with wanting something else. The mistake happens when we assume that because one path worked for one person, everyone else should follow it too.
I’ve noticed we do this constantly. The entrepreneur tells everyone they should start a business. The corporate executive tells everyone they should get a stable job. The married person tells everyone they should settle down. The single person tells everyone they should stay free. Everyone is trying to recruit people into the life that worked for them. But life isn’t a group project. We’re not all solving the same problem.
Some people are building companies. Some are building careers. Some are building families. Some are building themselves. The goal isn’t to copy someone else’s blueprint. The goal is to recognize your own when you see it.
That doesn’t mean my path is easier. Entrepreneurship can be lonely. Unpredictable. Financially uncomfortable. There are long stretches where nobody understands what you’re doing. Sometimes nobody believes in it either.bBut difficulty doesn’t automatically mean you’re on the wrong path. Sometimes it simply means you’re on a different one.
What struck me most that morning wasn’t what my mom said. It was how little power the comment had over me. Years ago, I would have internalized it. Now I examined it. And then I let it go. That might be one of the biggest signs of growth I’ve experienced.
Not confidence. Not success. Not money.
Discernment de.
The ability to hear an opinion without adopting it. The ability to listen without surrendering your identity. The ability to say:
Thank you for your perspective.
But that story doesn’t belong to me.
That’s one of adulthood’s quietest milestones. The moment you stop believing everything you’re told, and start believing yourself.