I'm not one to pour my heart out on the internet, but I've got a story that might resonate with some of you. It's about the day I realized that my meticulously crafted "master plan" for life was, in fact, not so masterful.
You know how we INTJs love to plan, right? I had it all mapped out: graduate top of my class, land a high-paying job in a prestigious firm, climb the corporate ladder, and retire early to a life of intellectual pursuits and leisure. It was a plan that ticked all the boxes of societal success, and I was hell-bent on achieving it.
I was always the "smart kid" growing up. Teachers loved me, parents bragged about me, and I was the go-to person for group projects. I thrived on that validation. It was like a drug, and I was addicted. So, naturally, I chose a career path that would continue to feed my ego: finance. I got into a top university, aced my courses, and landed internships that made my LinkedIn profile look like a Wall Street prodigy's dream.
Fast forward to two years into my first job. I was working 80-hour weeks, staring at spreadsheets until my eyes blurred, and attending meetings that felt like soul-sucking voids. But hey, I was climbing that ladder, right? I was on track, hitting all the milestones in my master plan.
Then, one day, it happened. I was sitting in yet another meeting about maximizing shareholder value or some other corporate jargon, and I felt this overwhelming sense of... emptiness. It was as if someone had pulled back the curtain, and I saw my life for what it was: a series of checkboxes that led to a finish line I wasn't even sure I wanted to cross anymore.
I started questioning everything. What was the point of all this? Was I just chasing an illusion of success? What about the things that genuinely mattered to me—like reading, philosophy, or just having the time to take a long walk and think? I felt like a cog in a machine, and the worst part was, I had willingly put myself there.
That night, I did something I hadn't done in years: I pulled out my old telescope from the attic. Stargazing was a hobby I had abandoned in the pursuit of my so-called "master plan." As I looked up at the night sky, I felt both humbled and liberated. The universe was so vast, so complex, and here I was, worried about my tiny, man-made constructs of success.
That experience was a wake-up call. I realized that my master plan was flawed because it was built on external validation and societal norms, rather than what truly mattered to me. I had become so obsessed with the end goal that I had lost sight of the journey—and the person I was becoming along the way.
So, I did something radical (at least for an INTJ). I quit my job. I took some time off to travel, read, and rediscover my passions. I even started writing—a hobby I had long neglected. Eventually, I switched careers and took a job that aligned more closely with my interests and values. It was a pay cut, sure, but the sense of fulfillment I gained was priceless.
The life lesson here? Plans are great, but they're not set in stone. It's okay to deviate, to question, and even to start over. Your worth is not determined by how closely you stick to a pre-defined path. Sometimes, the detours in life lead you to places far more meaningful than any destination you had in mind.
So, fellow INTJs, don't be afraid to reevaluate your master plans. You might just find that the person you're becoming is worth more than the goals you've set.