There is something I’ve understood about myself over the years, something that didn’t arrive all at once but unfolded slowly through experience, mistakes, motherhood, ambition, and quiet self-reflection. I don’t grow in comfort. I never truly have. And whenever I tried to convince myself that “good enough” was enough, life found a way to gently — or not so gently — correct me.

If I look back honestly, the biggest turning points in my life didn’t come from applause. They came from friction. From moments when I felt slightly inadequate, slightly intimidated, slightly stretched beyond what felt safe. And almost always, those moments had one thing in common: I was surrounded by people who were better than me in some way.

Not better as human beings. Not more worthy. But more skilled, more disciplined, more experienced, more courageous. People who operated at a level that made me realize I had been operating below my own capacity.

I didn’t always seek that kind of environment. In fact, in my early twenties, I did the opposite without even realizing it. I grew up in a small town where ambition wasn’t discouraged, but it also wasn’t loudly cultivated. If you did your work well, stayed polite, built a stable life, that was success. There was a quiet beauty in that simplicity, but there was also an invisible ceiling. You didn’t necessarily see what was possible beyond the familiar.

Nearly twenty years ago, I worked on a project that could have become something significant. At the time, it felt important. I poured effort into it, stayed up late refining details, and when I delivered the final result, I felt proud. It looked good. It functioned. It met expectations. I believed I had done well.

But if I am honest — and I can be now — I hadn’t given it everything.

I had access to better tools. I could have researched deeper. I could have pushed the concept further instead of stopping at the first solid solution. I could have asked more uncomfortable questions. I could have refined it one more time. I didn’t. I delivered something that was acceptable, not exceptional.

When the collaboration ended abruptly, I was shocked. My first instinct was defensiveness. Surely it wasn’t that bad. Surely it was just a mismatch. But something inside me knew I needed clarity, so I asked the client directly what had gone wrong.

His answer was calm, direct, and unforgettable: I had all the tools available, but I chose not to use them.

It felt harsh. It felt unfair. And yet, deep down, it felt true.

That sentence stayed with me for weeks. I replayed it in my head while cooking dinner, while driving, while lying awake at night. At first, I wanted to blame my age. My inexperience. The lack of guidance. The small-town mindset. But gradually, the truth became impossible to ignore: I hadn’t pushed myself because no one around me required it.

I had been operating in an environment where average was acceptable.

As a woman, I also realized I had internalized something else — the subtle pressure to not overreach. To not seem too ambitious. To be grateful for opportunities instead of demanding more from them. I had been careful, competent, and responsible. But I had not been bold.

That experience changed me quietly. Not overnight, not dramatically, but fundamentally. I made a decision that I didn’t even announce to anyone: I would no longer choose comfort over growth. If I wanted a different outcome, I had to change my environment and my standards.

I began intentionally placing myself in rooms where I felt slightly out of my depth. I studied professionals whose work intimidated me. Instead of admiring them from afar, I analyzed what made their output different. How did they think? How did they structure their processes? What questions did they ask before starting? I attended conferences even when I felt invisible in the crowd. I signed up for workshops that stretched my budget and my confidence. I reached out to people I considered more experienced, sometimes expecting rejection — and occasionally receiving mentorship instead.

Being in those spaces was uncomfortable at first. I remember sitting in meetings where I spoke less, listened more, and felt acutely aware of how much I still had to learn. But something beautiful happens when you remain in those rooms long enough: intimidation slowly transforms into inspiration. What once felt unreachable becomes understandable. And what becomes understandable becomes possible.

The shift didn’t only impact my work. It began shaping how I saw life itself.

When you surround yourself with people who constantly challenge their own limits, you begin to question your own invisible boundaries. You notice how often you say “that’s not for someone like me” or “maybe later” or “I’m not ready.” You realize how much of readiness is simply exposure. If no one in your circle has built something extraordinary, traveled far, changed careers, taken bold risks, then boldness feels unrealistic.

But when even one person around you normalizes growth, the standard changes.

Motherhood amplified this awareness for me in ways I never anticipated. Children are mirrors. They reflect not what we preach, but what we practice. When my oldest son talks about visiting Japan one day, he doesn’t say it with hesitation. For him, the world feels open. Travel feels normal. New cultures feel exciting, not intimidating. That didn’t happen by accident. It happened because, when he was small, we chose to move. We traveled across Europe when we could. Airports were part of his childhood. Different languages were part of his sensory memory. Adventure was not an exception — it was woven into normal life.

When I was his age, I didn’t dream like that. My childhood was shaped by uncertainty. My country was at war. Stability felt fragile. Travel felt distant, almost luxurious. And yet, even within those limitations, my parents pushed me in the ways they could. They valued education deeply. They encouraged resilience. They modeled strength during instability. I didn’t fully grasp the gift of that until much later.

Looking back, I see how every generation either expands or contracts possibility. If I remain small in my thinking, my children inherit that smallness. If I stretch, they inherit expansion.

That is why the people we surround ourselves with matter so profoundly. They don’t just influence our current results; they shape the beliefs we pass on.

In business, I have seen this repeatedly. Entrepreneurs who only speak to others who complain about the market begin to believe struggle is inevitable. Creatives who only compare themselves within limited circles underestimate their own potential. But when you enter conversations where scaling, innovation, and strategic thinking are normal topics, something shifts inside you. Your internal dialogue changes. Your expectations rise.

This is not about competition. It is about calibration.

We calibrate ourselves constantly to our surroundings. If everyone around us settles, settling feels natural. If excellence is the norm, we rise to meet it.

Of course, this path is not without discomfort. Growth can create distance. When you start evolving, some relationships change. Some conversations feel repetitive. Some people misunderstand your drive as dissatisfaction or arrogance. As a woman especially, ambition can still be misinterpreted. You may be labeled intense, overly focused, too much.

I’ve learned to accept that not everyone will feel comfortable with your expansion. And that is okay.

The deeper truth is that surrounding yourself with people who are ahead of you requires humility. You must be willing to receive feedback without collapsing. You must separate your identity from your current skill level. You must admit when you don’t know something. That vulnerability is not weakness; it is the gateway to growth.

Over time, I built what I privately call my “A team.” They are not necessarily the most famous or the most outwardly successful. They are thinkers. Builders. Women and men who value integrity and improvement. People who ask hard questions instead of offering empty praise. People who celebrate success genuinely but are not afraid to say, “You can do better.”

And I try to be that person for them as well.

Because this isn’t about hierarchy. It’s about shared elevation.

There is a quiet joy in mutual growth. In watching a friend take a bold step and feeling inspired instead of threatened. In discussing ideas that feel slightly too big and then slowly turning them into plans. In admitting fears out loud and realizing they shrink when shared with people who operate at a high level.

Life, I’ve come to believe, is less about achievements and more about experiences of expansion. The pride of mastering something you once avoided. The clarity that comes after honest feedback. The thrill of stepping into a new environment and realizing you belong there — not because you were always ready, but because you chose to become ready.When I think back to that younger version of myself — the one who delivered acceptable work instead of exceptional work — I feel compassion. She didn’t lack talent. She lacked exposure. She lacked pressure. She lacked the environment that demanded more.Now, when I feel that subtle nervousness walking into a room full of highly capable people, I recognize it as a signal. It means I am stretching. It means I am not stagnant. It means I am placing myself in proximity to growth.Everything becomes more achievable when you see it embodied around you. Belief is contagious. Standards are contagious. Courage is contagious.So I choose my proximity carefully.I choose conversations that challenge me instead of soothe me.I choose mentors who value truth over flattery.I choose friendships rooted in mutual evolution.And I choose, again and again, to resist the comfort of being the most capable person in the room.Because I know now that comfort rarely creates transformation.And if there is one thing I want my children to remember about me, it is not the titles I held or the projects I completed. It is that I never stopped stretching. That I never allowed myself to remain in rooms that required nothing more from me. That I believed growth was not a phase, but a lifelong responsibility.Life is too short to be a bystander in your own potential.And sometimes, the bravest thing a woman can do is step into a room where she is not yet the best — and decide she will rise anyway.