PART 1: Why Do Great Things Get Accomplished—And What Drives The People Who Accomplish Them?

G’day everyone,

I can think of no man or woman who has achieved something truly extraordinary without, somewhere deep inside, wanting to be seen as extraordinary themselves. After all, what greater satisfaction could there be than to have lived a life worthy of retelling—a story that others read in books, watch on morning television, or see immortalised in film? To be remembered. To be admired. To feel that one’s name echoes long after the noise of ordinary life has faded.

But beneath that noble dream lies something universal. From the moment we’re children, sat before glowing screens or tucked in with bedtime stories, we are fed the same ideal: be the hero. Be the knight in shining armor. Be the one who slays the dragon. What does that mean—and why are we so enchanted by it? Why do we pass this dream to our children as if it were sacred truth?

Yes, it brings excitement, joy, and a sense of purpose. But when we fail to become the hero of our own story, the same ideal turns cruel. It leaves us hollow—worthless, defeated, sometimes even suicidal. Some, in their darkest confusion, have rewritten the story entirely—casting themselves as heroes who avenge the wrongs of their world through acts of horror. Think of some, like Hitler, who made themselves into “heroes” in their own delusion, believing their cruelty served a higher good.

Here we see it clearly: our heroic fantasies are a double-edged sword. We are raised not to be content with being ordinary—not to blend into the background—but to stand in the spotlight. To be the star. And it is in reaching for that stardom that humanity creates both its greatest good and its greatest suffering.

So, I ask you—the reader—should we worship heroes? Is it necessary to follow this instinct, this hunger for greatness? Is it natural? Is it needed? Or can we imagine a world that doesn’t require heroes at all? Can we imagine a life in which we feel fulfilled without aiming for gold, without sacrificing ourselves for the applause of others?

Think of those you idolise—those you look up to, perhaps even worship. How do you feel when you fail to measure up to them? Could you live with the same joy and excitement if no one ever knew your name—if you died having lived fully, quietly, without recognition? Could you feel at peace knowing your life was full of meaning known only to you?

How do you measure your life when you look back upon it? What ruler do you use to determine its worth? Watch your words when you speak of your past. Watch your thoughts even more closely. You’ll begin to see that your self-worth is tied to a kind of internal measurement—a story you tell yourself about what counts as success.

For some, happiness comes from simple acts: a tidy backyard, a kind word, a call to a loved one. For others, it comes from progress—working hard today for something longed for in the future. And for others still, it comes from serving others, from being useful. But what fascinates me is this: our happiness or misery rarely comes from the acts themselves, but from how we measure them. The very act of measuring seems to determine our emotional state.

In truth, happiness doesn’t exist in the present moment. The present offers only immediacy—fear, curiosity, joy, wonder—emotions that move, that act. Happiness, however, is reflective. It arrives only when we look backward or forward: pride in what we’ve done, or hope for what’s to come. We live as storytellers, narrating our futures to give ourselves hope and retelling our pasts to feel content.

Watch your conversations again. You’ll notice it: the constant measuring. The constant storytelling. And if you look closely, you’ll see your own ruler—your private unit of measurement for self-worth. Where does it come from? Why must we measure at all?

We like to say a life is not measured in years but in how it was lived—but even that is a kind of measurement. We can’t help ourselves. Some aim to cure disease, end hunger, or win Olympic gold. Others aim for a quieter triumph—to raise kind children, to love well, to remain honest.

Is time itself the root of this compulsion?

A world without time would dissolve the pressure to achieve. If there were no beginning and no end, there would be no rush. But here, with clocks ticking, we race: through school, through careers, through marriage and kids, through retirement, through the bucket lists we hope will make us feel complete before death arrives. The tragedy is that what we chase always seems to lie just beyond the next hill. Those trusty two words we repeat too often, “Once I…”—once I get that job, once I buy that car, once I build that house, once I finish that renovation, once the kids finish school. Once I, once I, once I—ONCE I!!!

Perhaps, then, time is the root of our mental anguish—and achievement its sturdy trunk—both growing from the same soil: our need to belong, to matter, to know we were here and that it counted for something. We will all lay on our deathbeds scrolling through our memories, asking whether or not we have lived a good life, and we will invariably determine whether we have or have not by an arbitrary measurement rarely of our own making.

I hate the measuring stick I somehow inherited. I can’t just ‘Be’ without the insidious feeling of guilt crawling around my mind like a perennial menace: “You’re wasting time, James. Get off your ass and do something.” “What a waste of a life. Are you going to spend every day being unproductive?” “With so much suffering going on in the world, how dare you sit there and enjoy your life, you selfish fool.”

I won’t pretend I’ve found the solution. I wrestle with this every day. When I throw away the measuring stick, there’s only silence—a silence as unbearable as a mosquito’s high-pitched drone after you’ve just turned the lights out. To abandon the world’s standards is to lose all sense of direction.

Our measurements are tied to shared beliefs; without them, there is no north, south, east, or west—only darkness and disorientation. And yet, even there, something remains. You still have your senses. Your raw experience. I imagine being the first human on earth—before words, before stories, before names. Feeling the world directly: the mountain’s harshness, the cold, the body’s pulse. No words to explain any of it, just my senses feeding back.

What do my emotions do when words don’t yet exist to describe the world? Could you write poetry then? Could you even feel awe without the stories that taught you what awe is? Perhaps not. Perhaps what we call “beauty” and “wonder” are borrowed feelings—handed down through the stories of others. It’s as if humanity, finding the world too raw and merciless, forged a new one out of imagination—a softer, more meaningful one, filled with purpose and grandeur.

We give names, tell stories, and in doing so, make the world bearable. That is our gift. Even in ruin—even in deserts of despair—we imagine beauty, love, sacrifice, and meaning. We can write ourselves into any story and, through that story, continue to live. Viktor Frankl once observed that in Auschwitz, it was rarely the body that gave up first—it was almost always the mind. When the story ends, life ends with it. As long as we can keep conjuring meaning into our suffering, we can endure almost anything.

This realisation is both liberating and terrifying: We are the authors. We hold the power to change the units of our own measuring sticks. We can choose meanings that make life feel whole without demanding impossible achievements or needing congratulations.

But here lies the paradox—Once we see that it’s all a story, it loses some of its power. Knowing it’s fiction dulls the thrill; a movie “based on a true story” somehow always moves us more.

Bloody hell, I wish I had the answer—I desperately wish I had the answer.