Escaping a Life Built on Validation and Expectation

The walls you put up to protect yourself work to imprison you.

Shane Parrish

Intro

I’ve been working with a life coach as I try to discern where my life is supposed to go next. During one of our sessions, I hem and haw about all the ambiguity in this current season of life, prattling on about the things I can’t do because of this or that circumstance. My coach looks me in the eye and asks me point blank:

What do you want, Marshall?

I’m ashamed at how dumbfounded I am by the question. Because, the truth is, I don’t know. The more I dig into this question, the deeper I get into this junk drawer of desires, expectations, and unspoken agreements that make up this framework I live in. I’m clearer about what I think I’m supposed to want than I am about what I actually do want. There are deep desires and passions in there, but they’re so muddied by the things I’ve told myself are not possible over the years. Everything’s so tangled that it’s hard to tell a genuine, authentic desire when I see one.

I’ve come to recognize a hard truth. I’ve built a shelter out of the things that life has told me I’m supposed to want and are actually possible… Thinking this will give me a life of comfort. A life of happiness. But I recognize now that this shelter is really a cage – preventing me from living a life that truly fits. That’s truly me. How did this happen?

Act I: Foundation

As I was taking a test meant to discover my passions, it asked when you were little, what did you want to do when you grew up? Cliche question. And yet, it surfaced a simple fact. I don’t remember. I literally can’t recall a time where the innate longings of my soul were allowed to come out and be expressed. It was not hard to see why.

I was a nerd before it was cool—comic books, esoteric music, anime. I was also a sensitive kid. An easy target. I got bullied at school for being “weird”. But the deeper wounds came at home.

Eye rolls from my mom when I’d gush about my favorite characters. Indifference when I told my parents the school doctor said I had scoliosis. Getting yelled at for being too loud when I was just excited about something.

The message landed: You’re annoying when you’re yourself. Better to stay quiet. Better yet, disappear.

I didn’t fight harder to be seen. I gave up. School got harder. Bullying got worse. My parents became more alienated, and somewhere along the way I just stopped trying.

Wanting anything that was too left of center was dangerous. Letting the real you be seen meant being rejected. So I stopped asking. I stopped showing. I got really good at hiding.

I felt invisible and powerless.

I learned early on that the key to significance was to set aside who you really were, and put on the things that the world deemed praiseworthy. The things that will get you respect. The foundation for the cage was laid, and I stepped into adulthood craving the materials that would make my shelter complete.

Act II: Construction

This turned out to be harder than I expected. The one trick I learned in high school that gave me any sense of worth (other than chasing girls) was performing. I was good at music, and that earned me attention and praise. For the first time, I started to feel like I was valuable to people. I bought into the story that most Gen X’ers were handed – go to college or be stuck flipping burgers (lesson: the uneducated are losers). So I enrolled in music school.

But there’s a few things they don’t tell you about becoming a musician. It’s a hard life and a lot of work. Something I tended to have an allergic reaction to because things being “hard” meant I couldn’t cut it. And unless you were Yo-Yo Ma or Wynton Marsalis, people may have liked you, they may have enjoyed you, but they certainly didn’t respect you. I was a poor student and an even poorer musician, and I wanted no parts of that.

I drifted through odd jobs and watched my high school friends come home with degrees and job offers. I didn’t even finish college. Every time I heard someone say, “It’s not for everyone,” it felt like they were patting a child on the head.

I felt small and invisible all over again.

By divine providence, I landed a job in tech. For the first time, people asked what I did—and I had an answer that made their eyebrows go up.

I got good at it. Moved up. Started using words like “career.” The more money I made, the more I spent—less because I needed things, and more because I was desperate to confirm I was now someone people couldn’t so easily dismiss.

The walls of the shelter started to rise – an impressive title, large paycheck, nice stuff, the image of someone to be taken seriously. I busied myself assembling a life I hoped would win esteem in the eyes of others.

It worked—for a while. Until I started to realize I’d built a beautiful frame with an empty canvas.

Act III: Demolition?

It didn’t take long for something to feel off. Like clothes that don’t quite fit right. I wanted to create and contribute in ways that felt meaningful. I longed for real connection and to genuinely impact others. Not to say this couldn’t happen where I was, but I wasn’t wired for it. At least my soul wasn’t. But at this point, I’m on the treadmill. I have a family. A home. I can’t jump off so easily.

When the call to ministry came, it felt like stepping into a bubble of safety. Work that fit. Work that mattered. I could finally feel legitimate—valued for what I cared about. You could be a creative weirdo if you were doing it for Jesus, right?

Besides, it just felt more me. No more corporate life. Jeans and t-shirts. Getting into people’s lives. Meaningful work. I was excited. I longed for this so much, I never considered whether making this move was actually wise.

Things didn’t go as planned. I was unhealthy. The marriage was unraveling. What I hoped would celebrate my gifts became an initiation into the cult of sameness. The marriage imploded. Church politics got ugly. Ministry life collapsed. Disorientation set in. Everything I thought would last was crumbling.

I refused to crawl back to corporate life. It felt like death. But I also clung to the symbols of the life I’d built—nice things, appearances, feeling like someone of consequence. The cage was taking shape. And so the spending continued, even though the income was drying up.

I launched a photography business, thinking this was a new solution to the same problem. Do the kind of creative work that aligns with your spirit. Work on your own schedule. Oh, but don’t let go of the lifestyle that tells you and everyone else that you’re legitimate. That tells you people can take you seriously.

Eventually, because of this, I was saying yes to every job that paid the rent – whether it fit the vision or not. I started to hate the work. I started to hate the business. But the expenses were piling up. I had a family to feed and a decision to make. Live with less and chase the vision, or go find a job.

I relented. But even then, my heart wouldn’t let go of the fact that I was meant to create. I tried to find communications jobs where I could write for a living. It quickly became clear that I was going to have to accept a significant downgrade to do this. I was almost 40 years old, and the thought of performing a 15-year career reversal felt unbearable.

I finally crawled back to IT and corporate life with my tail between my legs. Back on the treadmill. But old habits die hard. Instead of finding a path that let me build something authentic, I slipped back into chasing job titles and accumulating “stuff”—anything to distract myself from the quiet ache inside.

I’ve been back on this treadmill for 10 years now and I still struggle to figure out what I really want and find the exit. The shelter of significance is now a cage.

I’ve bounced between the pull to leave and the lifestyle that keeps me parked. I love the paychecks, the dinners out, the new tech toys. I also hate how each upgrade muffles the voice inside saying, There’s more for you than this.

I’ve been living in this cage for 25 years now, and I’m sick of corporate life. Sick of not being able to get to the bottom of what I’m really meant to do. I’m ready to tear it all down. Take some real risks: sell the house, leave the country, figure out income later. I keep playing the scenarios in my head. I mentally imagine pulling the trigger and picture the headlines my friends will write for me—irresponsible, impulsive, midlife cliché. Maybe they’re right. But do I listen to this at the cost of continuing to live in the golden cage?

Conclusion

As I peer over the edge of my own golden cage, I have no idea what’s below. Risk is real. But so is freedom.

Maybe for most of us, it isn’t about burning everything down—maybe it’s about slowly, bravely pressing against each wall to see which ones fall away.

But for some, the cage has become such a tangled web of wants, beliefs, and inherited “shoulds” that the only way forward may be to torch it all—and see what remains when the smoke clears.

If that’s you, here’s your permission slip: start looking for the matches. Hold close those you love—those sharing your cage. But don’t lose sight of the life that’s still calling you beyond these walls.

Sometimes freedom means braving the unknown, because what’s real, what’s meant for you, might just be waiting on the other side of the haze.