I can still feel the moment the two halves of myself started to split. I was 22, fresh out of school, perched in a glass-walled conference room in a city I hadn’t decided to like yet. The job offer was everything I’d aimed for—title, salary, a clear path up. But as the hiring manager walked through the travel load, the weekend events, the always-on rhythm, my grandmother’s voice slipped in, soft and steady: Remember who you are, and whose you are.
That tug hasn’t left me. It’s the low hum underneath every choice I’ve made since I walked out of my parents’ front door. How do you chase a life that asks for more—more hours, more push, more visibility—without turning your back on the life that made you? For me, that means balancing ambition in one palm and the values of humility, community, and Sabbath-rest in the other. This isn’t a neat answer. It’s a daily, sometimes weekly, back-and-forth. Writing it out is the only way I make sense of it.
The Roots I’m Trying Not to Forget
I grew up in a house where your worth wasn’t tallied by what you produced. My parents, both immigrants, built a life on a foundation I can only call plain, stubborn decency. Hard work got respect, but nobody worshipped it. Showing up for people mattered more. A neighbor needed a ride to the airport? You went. Someone from church fell sick? You cooked. Ambition was a word we used carefully—almost like it could tip into selfishness if you didn’t watch it.
I soaked up those lessons without noticing. By the time I left for university, I carried an invisible checklist: be kind before you’re clever; don’t let success make you forget to set the table; rest isn’t laziness. These weren’t rules so much as rhythms. And they held, until I stepped into spaces where the playbook was completely different.
When the Hustle Became a Second Language
I didn’t realize I was picking up a new value system until I was already fluent. Early in my career, I landed in places that rewarded visible output. Long hours were a badge. Side projects were assumed. Hustling wasn’t just okay—it was applauded. And I wanted to be good at it. I wanted the promotion, the nod, the rush of forward motion. There’s a high that comes with being seen as capable, and I leaned into it.
But the crash would hit on Sunday afternoons, when I’d call my mother and feel the stretch of distance between us. She’d ask if I was eating right, if I’d found a church, if I’d made any real friends. And I’d realize my weeks were full but paper-thin. I was winning in the language of the marketplace and failing in the language of my childhood. I hadn’t figured out how to speak both at the same time.
The First, Fragile Attempts at Integration
At first, I tried to keep the two apart. Work was for ambition; home was for values. Monday to Friday, I was sharp and strategic. Weekends, I tried to be soft again. But that split made me feel like two people, and both of them were lonely.
What shifted was a small, almost embarrassing thing. I started saying no to networking events that felt hollow. I stopped pretending to care about things I didn’t care about just to look “driven.” Instead, I began hosting quiet dinners at my apartment, inviting people I genuinely wanted to know. I brought the same energy I’d been taught to bring to family gatherings—hospitality, listening, being present—into my professional life. And something surprising happened: those dinners built deeper connections than any cocktail hour ever had. Work came, not because I chased it, but because people trusted me.
That was the first hint. Maybe ambition didn’t have to look like what I’d been told. Maybe it could look like faithfulness, spread wide.
The Practices That Hold Me Together
Over time, I’ve stitched together a set of practices—some old, some new—that help me walk the line between striving and staying rooted. They’re not perfect, and I slip out of rhythm often. But they’re the frame I keep coming back to.
1. The Sabbath Question
My family kept a loose Sabbath when I was young. Fridays meant dinner together; Sundays meant rest. As an adult, I’ve reclaimed that practice in my own way. One day a week, I don’t work. Not even a little. No emails, no planning, no “just this one thing.” The discipline isn’t the rest itself—it’s the trust that the world won’t crack open if I pause. That trust is a muscle I have to rebuild over and over.
This practice pushes straight back against the voice that says my worth is tied to my output. When I stop, I’m reminded that I am not what I produce. I’m just Ziona. And that has to be enough.
2. Ambitious Hospitality
I’ve started thinking of hospitality as a form of ambition. It’s not passive. It takes work to create space where people feel seen and fed. And it’s deeply tied to the values I was raised with. When I pour energy into my home, into my community, I’m not stepping away from my goals—I’m reshaping them. A life thick with connection is as much a win as any career milestone.
3. The “Who Am I Doing This For” Test
Before I say yes to a new project, I ask myself: Who am I doing this for? If the answer is only my ego, or only a future version of myself that might never show up, I pause. If the answer connects to real growth, or to people I care about, I move forward. It’s a simple filter, but it’s saved me from chasing things that would’ve left me hollow.
Ambition as an Expression of Values
For a long time, I thought ambition and values were opposites. Ambition was the engine; values were the brakes. But I’ve started to see it differently. What if ambition is just the shape your values take when you’re brave enough to act on them?
If you value creativity, ambition might look like carving out time to write, even when it doesn’t pay. If you value family, ambition might look like building a career that lets you be present. If you value justice, ambition might look like using your voice in rooms that weren’t built for you. The ambition itself isn’t the issue. It’s when we let it drift loose from what we actually believe.
I think about the women in my family who never used the word ambition but lived lives of quiet, extraordinary impact. My aunt who ran a small tailoring shop and put three children through university. My grandmother who led the women’s fellowship at church for two decades. They didn’t climb ladders the way I’ve been taught to. But they moved mountains in their own steady way.
I carry them with me now. When I’m in a meeting and feel the squeeze to be someone I’m not, I imagine them in the room. They wouldn’t tell me to shrink. They’d tell me to stand tall, but to stand in the truth of who I am.
The Loneliness of the In-Between
I won’t pretend this is easy. Some days I feel like I belong nowhere. In some professional spaces, I’m seen as too soft, too relational. In some family conversations, I’m seen as too driven, too focused on things that don’t “really matter.” That in-between space can be lonely. But I’m learning that loneliness is sometimes the price of integration. You can’t be whole without leaving a few camps behind.
What helps is finding others who are navigating the same tension. I’ve started seeking out mentors who are both accomplished and kind. I’ve found friends who will celebrate my wins and also ask how my heart is doing. Community, it turns out, is the bridge. You can’t reconcile ambition and values alone. You need people who will hold both with you.
When Failure Teaches Us
I’ve failed at this more times than I can count. I’ve taken jobs that swallowed me. I’ve let relationships thin out for the sake of a deadline. I’ve let my prayer life go dry because I was too busy building. And each time, the failure taught me something. It taught me that I can’t do this without daily, sometimes hourly, recalibration. It taught me that grace isn’t just a nice idea—it’s a bare necessity.
I used to think that if I failed, it meant the whole project was wrong. Now I see failure as a signal, not a verdict. It tells me where I’ve drifted. It calls me back to center.
A Word for Those on the Same Road
If you’re reading this and feeling stretched thin between who you want to be and who you were raised to be, I want you to know something: the tension isn’t a sign that you’re broken. It’s a sign that you’re paying attention. The goal isn’t to erase the tension. It’s to learn to live inside it with integrity.
Start small. Pick one value you refuse to compromise on, and guard it fiercely. For me, that was rest. For you, it might be honesty, or presence, or joy. Let that one thing be the anchor. Then, slowly, build from there.
What I’m Still Learning
I’m still figuring this out. Just last week, I caught myself measuring my worth by my to-do list again. I had to stop, breathe, and remind myself that my grandmother’s legacy wasn’t built in a day. It was built in a thousand small, faithful acts over a lifetime.
Ambition, for me, is becoming less about speed and more about direction. Less about piling up and more about lining up. I want a life that looks, from the inside, like a coherent story—one where the girl who learned to set the table and the woman who sits at boardroom tables aren’t at war. They’re the same person, just grown.
Frequently Asked Questions
How do you define ambition in a way that fits your values?
For me, ambition is the stubborn chase of a life that echoes what I truly believe. It’s not about titles or salaries, though those can be part of it. It’s about being intentional. I ask myself: am I building a life I can be proud of, not just a résumé? If the answer is yes, then I’m pointed the right way.
What’s the biggest challenge in reconciling ambition with your upbringing?
The biggest challenge is the inner scrap. I have a voice that says “push harder” and another that says “be still and know.” Neither is wrong, but they can feel like they’re tearing me in two. The work is in letting them sit together rather than letting one shut the other up. It’s an ongoing process of listening and adjusting.
Can you be both content and ambitious?
I believe you can, but it asks for a redefinition of both. Contentment doesn’t mean sitting still. It means being at peace with who you are while still growing. Ambition doesn’t have to mean restlessness. It can mean a joyful pursuit of what matters. I’m learning to hold gratitude for today alongside hope for tomorrow. It’s not always smooth, but it’s possible.
How do you handle guilt when you prioritize your goals over certain traditions or expectations?
Guilt drops by often. When it shows up, I try to poke at it with curiosity instead of fear. Is the guilt telling me I’ve actually neglected something important, or is it just the echo of an old expectation? If it’s the first, I make things right. If it’s the second, I remind myself that I’m allowed to grow into a different shape than what was expected of me. I also talk about it with people I trust, because shame grows best in silence.
