The Question That Changed Everything

Once upon a time, six years ago, I was asked a question that would fundamentally alter the trajectory of my career. Not gradually. Not eventually. Instantly.

The question was simple: "Prove why you deserve this more than someone else."

I remember staring at those words, reading them again. And again. As an overthinker and an introvert, I have plenty of "me time"—hours where I replay conversations, dissect body language, analyze the weight of every sentence. But this question didn't need overthinking. Its impact was immediate and seismic.

It wasn't the question itself that shocked me. It was what the question revealed.

The Autopilot Years

For years leading up to that moment, I had operated on a certain assumption about how the world worked. You do excellent work. You receive "above expectations" performance ratings. You earn awards. You contribute value. And in return, you are recognized. Not compared. Not weighed against others on some invisible scale. Simply seen for what you bring.

I had never thought of comparing my performance to anyone else's. That wasn't the game I was playing. I was focused on the work itself—solving problems, building systems, and delivering impact. The validation came naturally: from the results, from colleagues who sought my input, from leaders who relied on my contributions.

I mattered because I added value. Or so I thought.

But that single question—prove why you deserve this more than someone else—shattered that illusion.

The Jolt

In his upcoming book Jolted, Anthony Klotz (the organizational psychologist who coined "The Great Resignation") describes these moments as jolts: singular, unexpected events that snap us out of autopilot and force us to confront a fundamental question about our lives.

Not "Am I doing well?" but "Am I on the right path?"

Not "Am I performing?" but "Does this lead to the good life?"

That question—prove your worthiness—was my jolt.

It wasn't about the promotion or the title or even the fairness of the situation. It was about what the question exposed: that despite years of exceptional performance, despite the awards and ratings and recognition, I had fundamentally not mattered in the way I thought I did.

I thought I mattered because I contributed. But at that moment, I realized I was being treated as comparable. Interchangeable. A data point in a spreadsheet where names could be swapped, metrics could be stacked, and worthiness could be mathematically calculated.

And if I was comparable, then I didn't truly matter at all.

The Mattering Deficit

Jennifer Wallace, in her book Mattering, argues that the modern crisis—our epidemic of anxiety, burnout, and quiet desperation—stems from what she calls an "erosion of mattering."

We live in a world that confuses performance with significance. We're measured constantly, ranked endlessly, but rarely made to feel irreplaceable.

Wallace identifies two dimensions of mattering:

1. Being valued – feeling noticed, appreciated, relied upon

2. Adding value – having the opportunity to contribute meaningfully to others

For years, I had the second dimension. I was adding value—measurably, consistently, undeniably. But that question revealed I didn't have the first. I wasn't valued as a unique contributor. I was evaluated as a comparable resource.

The jolt didn't create this mattering deficit. It simply revealed the fragility of a professional identity built on performance metrics rather than genuine significance.

The Overthinking Spiral (And What It Revealed)

As an introvert and an overthinker, I did what I do best: I analyzed everything.

I replayed conversations. I scrutinized body language from past meetings. I re-read emails from months prior, searching for clues I had missed. Had there been signs? Had I been blind to the reality of my situation?

But the more I thought, the clearer it became: this wasn't about me. This was about the system.

I had been operating in an environment that measured but didn't value. That rewarded performance but didn't cultivate significance. That gave awards but withheld the one thing that actually mattered: the feeling of being irreplaceable.

Many people around me didn't understand why I made the decision I did. They saw the ratings, the awards, the trajectory. They asked, "Why is this such a big deal?"

Because once you see the mattering deficit, you cannot unsee it.

The Question Beneath The Question

Klotz argues that jolts force us to confront whether our current path leads to "the good life." But here's what's crucial: the definition of "the good life" differs from person to person.

For some, it is the bigger job title, the expanded team, the larger paycheck. And there's nothing wrong with that.

But for others—for me—the good life isn't about climbing a ladder that someone else built. It's about building something where I fundamentally matter.

Where my absence would be felt, not just backfilled.

Where my contribution is unique, not just above average.

Where I'm not asked to prove my worthiness relative to others, but where my worthiness is inherent in the value I bring and the relationships I build.

After that jolt, I realized: I had been succeeding in a game I no longer wanted to play.

Here's where Wallace and Klotz converge into a single, powerful truth:

A jolt is often the moment we realize we don't matter in the way we thought we did.

The jolt is the trigger. The mattering deficit is the root cause.

We don't leave because of one bad question or one unfair moment. We leave because that moment reveals a pre-existing fragility—a professional life built on a foundation of performance rather than significance.

Wallace writes that resilience isn't a solo endeavor. It's not about gritting through toxic environments or toughing out situations where we're treated as replaceable. Real resilience comes from being held by communities that recognize our worth.

Klotz writes that jolts give us back our agency—the power to choose: Do I stay or do I go?

But the real question beneath that choice is Wallace's question: Do I matter here?

If the answer is no—or even "only conditionally"—then no amount of awards or ratings or performance metrics will build the resilience needed to stay.

Six years after that question, I've built a career defined not by proving my worthiness relative to others, but by creating environments where mattering is the foundation.

But more importantly, I've learned this: the organizations and leaders worth following are those who never make you prove you deserve to be there.

They recognize your contribution. They value your uniqueness. They build cultures where people feel relied upon, not just utilized.

And when jolts inevitably come—because they always do—those are the places where people recommit rather than resign.

I'm still an overthinker. I still replay conversations and analyze body language and dissect every interaction.

But now, I know what I'm looking for: not just performance metrics, but mattering signals.

Am I valued, or just measured?Am I irreplaceable, or just above average?Am I building toward significance, or just status?

The good life, for me, isn't about never experiencing jolts. It's about building a professional life resilient enough to withstand them—not through individual grit, but through the deep knowledge that I matter.

Not because I've proven it.

But because it's true.