How do you define success in life?

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I turned 60 a little more than a week ago, and I’ll admit that I’ve been thinking about this question quite a bit lately. Not necessarily because I feel unsuccessful, but because I’m increasingly aware that there are more years behind me than there are ahead of me.

My mother died at 67. My father lived to be 84, but he spent much of his final few years confined to a bed. Neither experience gives me much confidence that I’ll be running marathons at 85. Of course, I wouldn’t be running marathons at 60, either, but that’s beside the point. The point is that the sands in the hourglass are slipping away, and there are still so many things I want to accomplish.

I’ve written one novel, Tumbleweeds, and I’m proud of it. But it’s not published, and some days publication seems hundreds of miles away. There are other stories I want to tell, other characters I want to introduce to the world, and other books I hope will someday sit on someone’s shelf. More than anything, I’d like to know that something I’ve written mattered to someone who read it.

If I live another 25 years, I’d love to look back on a shelf full of published novels and know that I accomplished what I set out to do. But would that make my life a success? I suppose it depends on how you measure it.

I’ve spent most of my professional life working with words, first as a journalist and later as a teacher. I didn’t enter the classroom until I was 50, and now I’m in my 10th year of teaching. In most of those years, I’ve been rated highly effective. I’m proud of that, but the evaluations aren’t what I’ll remember when my teaching career ends. I’ll remember the students.

In fact, one of them came to talk to me today. He’d gotten into some trouble recently, and he was concerned that I was disappointed in him. That surprised me a little, because I hadn’t realized my opinion of him carried that much weight.

I told him I wasn’t disappointed. I was confused by some of his decisions, but that didn’t mean I’d given up on him or thought less of him as a person. He seemed relieved.

It wasn’t a particularly long conversation, and I doubt it would have impressed anyone evaluating my teaching performance. But it reminded me that sometimes the most important things we accomplish happen in moments we don’t recognize as important until afterward. If that young man remembers that conversation, or if it helps him make a better decision somewhere down the road, I’ll consider that a success.

Then there’s my family. My daughter, Lizzi, has become a wonderful wife and mother. She and her husband have given me two beautiful grandchildren, Aurelia and Sullivan, and watching their family grow has been one of the great joys of my life.

I can’t claim credit for everything Lizzi has become. She’s made her own choices, learned her own lessons and built her own life. But I’d like to believe I contributed something worthwhile along the way. More importantly, I hope that the faith and kindness I tried to instill in her will find their way into the lives of her children, and perhaps their children after that. That’s a legacy worth leaving.

And there’s my marriage. I want to keep building a life with Daryl, growing closer together and strengthening the relationship we committed ourselves to more than 11 years ago. Marriage isn’t a trophy you put on a shelf once the wedding is over. It’s something you keep working on, learning from and investing in for as long as you’re together. If I reach the end of my life knowing that I loved my wife well, that will mean more to me than any professional recognition I might receive.

But here’s where the question gets uncomfortable. What if I don’t have another 25 years? What if my life ended tomorrow? Could I honestly say it had been successful?

In some ways, absolutely. I have a daughter I’m proud of, grandchildren I adore, a wife I love, and students whose lives I’ve had the privilege of influencing. I’ve had opportunities to do meaningful work, and I’ve tried to make the most of them. But I’d also leave behind an unpublished novel and a collection of stories that never made it out of my imagination. There are places I haven’t visited, experiences I haven’t enjoyed and goals I haven’t reached. And that bothers me.

I know the familiar argument that success isn’t measured by money, fame or accomplishments. I’ve made that argument myself. But I don’t think ambition is something we should apologize for. God gives us talents, interests and opportunities, and I believe we’re supposed to do something with them.

I want to publish my novels. I want people to read them. I want to write more of them. I want to continue making a difference in the lives of students. I want to watch my grandchildren grow up and see what wonderful people they become. I want to build a stronger marriage and leave behind a legacy of faith and kindness. I don’t think any of those desires makes me ungrateful for what I’ve already received.

Maybe that’s the distinction I’ve been looking for. Success isn’t necessarily reaching the point where there’s nothing left to accomplish. I hope I never reach that point, regardless of how many birthdays I’m blessed to celebrate.

Success is being able to look back and recognize that your life has mattered, even while looking ahead and seeing things still worth pursuing. I’ve accomplished some things I’m proud of. I’ve made plenty of mistakes, and there are certainly decisions I’d make differently if I had the opportunity. But I’ve also loved people, taught students, written stories and tried to live according to my faith.

And I’m not finished. Maybe the best measure of success isn’t whether you’ve accomplished everything you wanted to do. Maybe it’s whether you’ve lived a life that still gives you a reason to want another tomorrow.

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Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.