What If Success Isn't Just About Hard Work?
Luck, likability, karma and the invisible forces that shape our lives.
Why do some people rise to extraordinary heights while others, equally intelligent and hardworking, never quite reach their potential? Is success simply a product of talent, determination and social connections, or do luck, circumstance and divine grace also play a part?
Reflecting on my father's extraordinary resilience and his long battle with Parkinson's has led me to question what success really means. How much does likability matter? Can emotional intelligence take us further than intellect alone? Why do some people seem to encounter opportunity after opportunity, while others work tirelessly without receiving the recognition they deserve?
And perhaps the most intriguing question of all: is there something beyond what we can see, measure and control? Could karma, conscience, the state of our inner being and our relationship with a higher power have a part to play in how we experience life?
These are questions I have found myself returning to, not merely as abstract philosophical ideas, but as reflections on my own upbringing, my father's life, my professional journey and the future I hope my children will build for themselves.
The mind that keeps asking why
I have always had an introspective mind. I question, reflect, analyse and rarely feel entirely satisfied with the surface of things. I want to understand not just what something is, but why it exists, what lies beneath it and whether there is a deeper purpose to its existence.
Perhaps this is why spirituality has always appealed to me so profoundly.
I have sometimes struggled with the idea that scientific discovery, for all its brilliance, can tell us how something works without necessarily answering what its existence means. Science investigates the mechanisms of the universe, revealing patterns, forces and relationships that would once have been beyond our imagination. Yet every answer seems to open another door, behind which lie further questions.
We investigate matter at increasingly smaller scales. We examine atoms, molecules and subatomic particles. We explore the forces that govern their interactions and the energy associated with their behaviour.
And I find myself wondering: is there a deeper intelligence underlying the extraordinary order of existence?
In my spiritual understanding, the universe is not simply a collection of disconnected mechanisms. There is a divine reality, an underlying power and a subtle order that give meaning to life. Within Sahaja Yoga, we contemplate the subtle system of chakras and energy channels, and the qualities associated with different aspects of the divine. Hanuman, for example, is associated with strength, devotion and the right-sided energy of action and dynamism.
I sometimes wonder whether the physical world we investigate through science can inspire us to reflect on a deeper spiritual reality. I recognise that scientific evidence for physical forces does not establish the existence of divine energy, and that spirituality and physics address different kinds of questions. But I do not believe that curiosity must stop at the boundaries of what we can presently measure.
For me, the wonder lies in continuing to ask questions.
I once interviewed a highly accomplished scientist who described his fascination with investigating the microscopic world, repeatedly examining what lay beneath the apparent surface of things. What stayed with me was the sense of being drawn towards something that seemed to offer no simple endpoint.
I cannot claim that his experiments proved anything about the divine. What I took from the conversation was something more personal: the deeper we investigate reality, the more there is to discover.
Perhaps the most important quality shared by the scientist and the spiritual seeker is not certainty, but curiosity.
Both are willing to look beyond the obvious. Both recognise that the world is more complicated than our immediate perceptions suggest. Both can be driven by the feeling that there is something more to understand.
And perhaps the same curiosity should be directed towards human life itself.
Why do some people succeed? Why do others struggle? Why does one person possess extraordinary intelligence but never quite find their place in the world, while another, seemingly less gifted, builds a thriving career, a loving family and a circle of people who would do almost anything for them?
What are we missing when we measure success only by talent, effort and achievement?
My father: a man built for extraordinary things
When I look back at my father's life and career, I see a man of remarkable ability.
I have often felt that he was much cleverer than me. He possessed a natural inquisitiveness, an analytical mind and a determination that seemed to operate on a different level. He was a leader by instinct, someone who could organise, take charge, develop projects and shoulder responsibilities that might have overwhelmed other people.
He was extraordinarily hardworking.
He could immerse himself in a project, devote immense amounts of time and energy to it, and pursue it with an intensity that I have rarely seen matched. He enjoyed organising things and speaking on stages. He could carry enormous responsibilities and appeared to need very little sleep.
Sometimes, I think he carried the workload, responsibility and tension of an entire government on his shoulders.
He came from a difficult family background, one that required him to depend heavily on himself. When a child grows up having to fend for themselves, they may develop a fierce independence. They learn to take responsibility, solve problems and keep moving forward because they cannot assume that someone else will come to their rescue.
That sort of upbringing can produce extraordinary resilience.
It can also leave its mark.
When you have learned that you must depend on yourself, asking for help may feel unnatural. When you have spent years fighting your way forward, relaxing your grip can feel like losing control. When you have had to become strong early in life, vulnerability may seem like a luxury you cannot afford.
I wonder whether some of my father's greatest strengths were shaped by these experiences, and whether those same experiences also made certain aspects of life more difficult for him.
He was not a pushover. He was not necessarily easygoing. He could be strong-willed and difficult to move once he had formed an opinion.
Those qualities can be valuable when a project is failing, when a difficult decision must be made or when everyone else is ready to give up. But the qualities that make someone formidable in a professional setting do not always make relationships effortless.
There is a difference between being able to carry a responsibility and being able to share it.
There is a difference between knowing what needs to be done and persuading other people to help you do it.
And there is a difference between having the strength to lead and possessing the emotional flexibility to allow others to lead alongside you.
I have often wondered how far my father might have travelled professionally if his remarkable intellect, determination and work ethic had been accompanied by greater ease in his relationships with people.
Perhaps he did achieve more than I fully appreciate. Perhaps circumstances, opportunities and events that I never witnessed played their part. I cannot know the full story.
But I sometimes imagine what might have been possible.
Could he have reached a position of even greater influence? Could he have built a larger team around him, delegated more responsibility and developed a wider network of professional relationships? Could his ideas have travelled further if more people had been drawn towards working with him?
These are not questions intended to diminish his achievements. They come from recognising just how much potential he possessed.
I saw a man who could work extraordinarily hard. I wonder whether the world might have opened even more doors for him had he also found it easier to make the journey enjoyable for the people travelling alongside him.
When hard work is not enough
We are taught from childhood that if we work hard, study diligently and make sacrifices, success will follow.
There is truth in this. Hard work develops competence. Discipline creates consistency. Persistence helps us overcome obstacles that defeat people who give up too early.
But hard work is not a guarantee of success.
Imagine two equally talented professionals working in the same organisation.
The first is exceptionally competent. They arrive early, stay late, solve difficult problems and take personal responsibility for everything. They are technically brilliant, but they are impatient with colleagues, reluctant to delegate and quick to point out mistakes.
The second is equally competent, but they also listen carefully, give credit to others, communicate calmly and help colleagues develop. They understand that a successful project depends not only on getting the technical details right, but on bringing people together.
Over time, the second person may be more likely to be trusted with leadership responsibilities. Colleagues may recommend them for promotion. Senior managers may feel more confident giving them a larger team. People may volunteer information, ideas and support because they enjoy working with them.
The first person may be doing more work individually. The second may be creating more value collectively.
That distinction matters.
A highly capable individual can become the person everyone depends upon to solve problems. But if that person cannot delegate, they can also become the bottleneck through which every decision must pass.
They may work harder and harder while their influence remains limited by their own capacity.
A leader who develops other people can multiply their impact. They create a team that can operate without their constant supervision, make decisions independently and continue to perform well when the leader is absent.
This is not simply about being nice. It is about understanding how human beings work together.
The same principle applies to business ownership, medicine, academia, politics and almost every profession in which people depend on one another.
The person with the highest technical ability does not always become the most influential. The person with the greatest workload does not always become the most successful.
Sometimes the decisive factor is trust.
Sometimes it is communication.
Sometimes it is the ability to make other people feel that their contribution matters.
And sometimes it is simply the willingness to be in the right place, at the right time, with the right people.
The hidden power of likability
This brings me to a subject that can sound superficial, even uncomfortable, but which I believe deserves serious consideration: likability.
We often want to believe that merit alone determines success. We want to think that the best person will naturally rise to the top, that the hardest worker will be recognised and that the most intelligent person will ultimately prevail.
But human beings are not impartial machines evaluating one another solely on performance.
We form relationships. We develop preferences. We remember how people make us feel.
When an opportunity arises, we are often more comfortable recommending someone we trust, promoting someone we believe will work well with others, or inviting someone into a partnership when we know that disagreement will not turn into hostility.
This is human nature.
In Britain, professional relationships can develop through informal settings: a game of golf, a shared sporting interest, a meal, a drink after work or a conversation at an event that has nothing directly to do with business.
These settings allow people to discover one another beyond their job titles and professional achievements.
Of course, nobody should have to enjoy golf, drink alcohol or participate in a particular social culture to succeed. But the underlying principle is important: relationships are often strengthened when people have the opportunity to connect without a formal agenda.
A conversation over a shared interest can create familiarity. Familiarity can develop into trust. Trust can create opportunities for collaboration.
Sometimes, a person receives an opportunity not because they were the most technically qualified individual in the room, but because someone who knew them believed they would be a good person to work with.
This does not necessarily mean that merit has been abandoned. It means that the ability to work with others is itself a form of merit.
My father did not particularly enjoy the pub culture that forms part of some professional social circles in Britain. He did not have many of the recreational interests through which people build informal networks. Earlier in his career, he played cricket with colleagues, and I imagine that provided an opportunity to enjoy the company of others outside work.
Somewhere along the way, however, his professional responsibilities seemed to occupy an increasingly dominant place in his life.
I wonder whether he regarded some of these social activities as distractions, or whether his own experiences had made him more comfortable relying on himself than investing in relationships that did not have an obvious practical purpose.
I cannot know.
But I have come to appreciate that a relationship does not have to produce an immediate result to be valuable.
Sometimes the conversation that seems to accomplish nothing is the one that builds a friendship. Sometimes the afternoon spent doing something enjoyable is what creates the trust that makes a future partnership possible.
We cannot reduce every human interaction to its commercial value. Yet we should not underestimate how much our lives are shaped by the connections we develop.
Likability is not a substitute for competence. It is often the quality that allows competence to travel further.
The important distinction is between genuine likability and the performance of likability.
A person can be charming, persuasive and socially sophisticated while using those abilities to manipulate others. They can cultivate a network of people who admire them without genuinely caring about any of them.
Another person may be less charismatic but possess extraordinary integrity, kindness and reliability.
The first may rise quickly. The second may take longer to be recognised.
Which is the greater success?
That depends on whether we are measuring the height of the position someone reaches or the quality of the person they become along the way.
When social intelligence becomes manipulation
There is a darker side to the pursuit of success.
Some people understand human behaviour not because they want to build meaningful relationships, but because they recognise that influence can be used to obtain what they want.
They flatter people strategically. They take credit for other people's work. They form alliances when it benefits them and abandon them when it does not. They may present themselves as generous while quietly ensuring that every favour creates an obligation.
Such people can be extraordinarily effective at navigating professional and social hierarchies.
It would be naive to pretend otherwise.
There are individuals who rise through manipulation, dishonesty or the exploitation of others. There are people whose careers prosper despite behaviour that causes considerable harm.
Meanwhile, principled individuals may lose opportunities because they refuse to compromise their values. Honest people can be overlooked. Generous people can be taken advantage of. Hardworking people can watch others receive the recognition they themselves have earned.
The world does not always reward virtue.
Nor does success necessarily prove that someone deserves everything they have achieved.
This presents a difficult question for anyone who wants to live ethically while also aspiring to do well.
Should we become more calculating because others are? Should we learn to manipulate people more effectively because manipulation sometimes works? Should we abandon our principles if doing so would help us climb higher?
My own spiritual perspective makes me reluctant to accept that conclusion.
If we believe that life has a moral dimension, then our behaviour matters even when there is no immediate consequence.
We may persuade others that we are honest. We may protect our reputation. We may conceal our intentions and avoid being held accountable by those around us.
But can we escape our own knowledge of what we have done?
And if we believe in a higher power, can we truly regard ourselves as accountable only to other human beings?
I do not believe that people need religion to possess a conscience. Non-religious people can demonstrate extraordinary moral courage, while religious people can behave in ways that contradict the very values they profess.
The important question is not simply whether someone believes in God.
It is whether they believe that the way they live matters beyond the immediate rewards they receive.
For some, that conviction comes from faith. For others, it comes from philosophy, empathy, human solidarity or a deeply held commitment to doing what is right.
But for me, spirituality adds another dimension. It invites me to consider that our actions may have a significance beyond what society can see or measure.
It encourages me to ask not only, "Can I get away with this?" but, "Is this the kind of person I want to become?"
Because there is a difference between succeeding at a particular objective and succeeding as a human being.
A person may build a profitable company while damaging everyone who works for them. They may acquire influence while losing the trust of their family. They may become admired in public while privately knowing that their achievements depend on deception.
By one measure, they have succeeded.
By another, they may have paid a price that no promotion, bank balance or public recognition can compensate for.
Perhaps the real challenge is to build a life in which our external achievements and our inner values are not constantly at war with one another.
Is success a combination of hard work, luck and blessings?
When we look at successful people, we often concentrate on the qualities that make their stories inspiring.
We admire the entrepreneur who builds a thriving business, the doctor who becomes a leader in their field, the individual who rises through an organisation or the person who transforms an idea into something that benefits thousands of people.
We see their decisions, their dedication and their achievements.
But there are other elements in almost every success story.
The entrepreneur may have had a supportive family, access to capital or a chance meeting with someone who opened a crucial door.
The doctor may have encountered a mentor who recognised their potential and encouraged them to pursue an opportunity they would otherwise have missed.
The professional may have joined an organisation just before it expanded, placing them in a position where their abilities could be recognised.
Someone else, equally talented, might have encountered illness, financial pressure, family responsibilities or a series of unfavourable circumstances that made the same journey much harder.
How much of success belongs to the individual, and how much belongs to the circumstances surrounding them?
We cannot calculate the answer precisely.
Effort matters. Preparation matters. Intelligence matters. But none of these gives us complete control over our outcomes.
We do not choose every circumstance into which we are born. We do not control every encounter, every opportunity or every unexpected event. We cannot guarantee that our health will remain good or that our best efforts will be recognised.
This is where I find myself contemplating luck and divine grace.
Someone without a spiritual worldview may understand a fortunate coincidence as chance: a favourable alignment of circumstances that could easily have unfolded differently.
Someone who believes in God may experience the same event as a blessing.
I recognise that these are different interpretations. We cannot establish divine intervention simply because something fortunate happens. But I find the spiritual interpretation meaningful because it encourages humility.
If I believe that every achievement is entirely the result of my own intelligence and effort, I may begin to regard those who have achieved less as less capable or less deserving.
If, however, I recognise how much I owe to circumstances beyond my control, I may become more grateful and less inclined to judge others.
I may recognise that someone who is struggling today is not necessarily less talented, less hardworking or less worthy than someone who is prospering.
Their circumstances may simply be different.
This does not mean we should become passive, waiting for blessings to arrive. We must still prepare, make decisions, work diligently and take responsibility for our actions.
But we should also recognise the limits of our control.
Perhaps hard work is our contribution, opportunity is partly beyond our command, and gratitude is the recognition that we did not create every favourable circumstance in our lives.
And perhaps the more successful we become, the more important it is to remember that distinction.
Karma: a concept we should not dismiss too quickly
The idea of karma is often reduced to a simple equation: do good and good things will happen; do bad and bad things will happen.
But life does not always appear to operate according to such a straightforward timetable.
Good people become ill. Honest people experience injustice. Compassionate people suffer losses they do not deserve. Meanwhile, people who behave selfishly or dishonestly can enjoy years of prosperity.
If karma means that every good action must produce an immediate, visible reward, then everyday experience challenges that interpretation.
But perhaps we should not be so quick to dismiss the deeper question that karma raises.
In Indian philosophical traditions, karma has a rich range of meanings concerning action, intention and consequences. Different traditions understand it in different ways, and its spiritual dimensions cannot simply be reduced to a scientific formula.
At a practical level, however, we can see that our actions shape the world we inhabit.
Dishonesty can destroy trust. Repeated anger can damage relationships. Generosity can create goodwill. Patience can prevent unnecessary conflict. Integrity can establish a reputation that becomes valuable over many years.
These are consequences we can often observe.
But spiritual traditions invite us to contemplate whether there may also be dimensions of consequence that we cannot fully see or measure.
Could our intentions matter in ways that extend beyond the immediate moment? Could the way we live have a significance that is not captured by our professional status or financial circumstances?
I cannot prove that every event in our lives is the result of karma. Nor would I want to suggest that someone who suffers must somehow have deserved their suffering. That would be a cruel and unjustified conclusion.
But I do believe that karma deserves thoughtful consideration.
Perhaps it is not a guarantee that life will always be fair. Perhaps it is an invitation to take our actions seriously, even when we cannot see their full consequences.
It encourages us to ask a different set of questions.
Not simply, "What will I gain from this?" but, "What am I creating through this action?"
Not simply, "Will this help my career?" but, "What kind of person am I becoming?"
Not simply, "Can I get away with this?" but, "Would I be comfortable with the person I am becoming if this became a habit?"
And for someone with a spiritual outlook, it leaves room for a further possibility: that the universe contains dimensions of order and meaning beyond our present understanding.
Perhaps we do not need to know precisely how karma operates to recognise the value of living as though our actions matter.
The inner state: positivity, chakras and receptivity to blessings
This brings me to something I find particularly interesting through my practice of Sahaja Yoga.
What if success is influenced not only by what we do externally, but also by the state of consciousness from which we act?
Within Sahaja Yoga, the subtle system of chakras and energy channels provides a framework for understanding our inner development and our connection with the divine. Through meditation and the cultivation of awareness, the aim is to develop greater balance, clarity and a deeper experience of spiritual connection.
I sometimes contemplate whether a person who cultivates positivity, humility, gratitude and a genuine relationship with a higher power might become more receptive to what we experience as blessings.
I do not mean that we have scientific proof that clear chakras cause professional success, or that a positive mindset guarantees favourable outcomes. Nor should anyone who experiences hardship conclude that their spiritual state is somehow deficient.
Rather, I am interested in the relationship between our inner state and the way we respond to life.
Imagine two people facing the same professional setback.
The first becomes consumed by resentment. They blame everyone around them, become defensive and lose the ability to see new possibilities.
The second is disappointed but remains reflective. They consider what they can learn, seek advice, maintain relationships and stay open to unexpected opportunities.
Their circumstances may be identical, but their responses create different possibilities.
The second person may be better able to recognise an opportunity when it appears because disappointment has not entirely closed their mind to the future. They may also find it easier to collaborate with others because they do not turn every difficulty into a conflict.
From a psychological perspective, optimism, emotional regulation, openness to feedback and supportive relationships can all influence how people navigate challenges.
From a spiritual perspective, I might describe these qualities as helping to cultivate inner balance and receptivity.
Perhaps these are different ways of reflecting on aspects of the same human experience, even though they are not interchangeable explanations.
For me, spirituality offers something more than a technique for achieving worldly success. It offers a reason to cultivate these qualities even when there is no immediate reward.
To become calmer because calmness has value in itself.
To become kinder because other people matter.
To develop humility because we are all still learning.
To practise gratitude even when life does not unfold according to our expectations.
And perhaps, as a consequence, we become better equipped to recognise opportunities, build meaningful relationships and respond wisely to life's uncertainties.
There is an important distinction here.
I do not want to suggest that we should become spiritual simply because we hope the universe will reward us.
That would turn spirituality into another form of social climbing: a transaction in which we behave well because we want something in return.
Instead, I wonder whether a genuine spiritual orientation changes what we regard as success in the first place.
Perhaps the blessing is not always that we receive what we wanted.
Perhaps it is that we develop the clarity to recognise what is worthwhile, the patience to endure what cannot be changed, and the wisdom to act well when an opportunity does arise.
Parkinson's: when the person we know begins to change
There is another dimension to my father's story that makes these reflections particularly personal.
Parkinson's disease.
He has lived with it for approximately twenty-four years.
Twenty-four years is a long time to live with a progressive neurological condition. It is a long time for a person to adapt to changes in their body, their independence, their daily routines and their sense of what is possible.
It is also a long time for a family to watch someone they love navigate those changes.
When I think of my father, I cannot separate the man he was from the journey he has endured.
I remember the determination, the extraordinary capacity for work, the analytical mind and the sense that he could take on almost anything.
I remember a man who seemed to carry an enormous amount of responsibility without ever appearing to need the same rest or reassurance that other people might have needed.
And then there is the reality of Parkinson's: a condition that can gradually alter far more than movement.
Parkinson's can affect sleep, mood, motivation, cognition and other aspects of daily life. Its effects vary between individuals, and it is impossible for me to identify precisely when particular changes began in my father's case.
Looking back, however, I sometimes wonder whether there were changes in him that I did not fully understand at the time.
Perhaps some of the things I noticed were simply aspects of his personality that had always been there. Perhaps his lifelong habits and experiences played their part. Perhaps the disease influenced some of the changes I witnessed. I cannot separate those possibilities with certainty.
But I have found myself asking a question that is difficult to put into words.
When did I begin to lose the father I knew, even though he was still here?
It is not a question about his physical presence. He is still with us. Nor is it a denial of the person he continues to be.
It is a question about the gradual changes that illness can bring, and about the way a familiar personality can sometimes become harder to recognise.
My father has become, in many ways, more stubborn, more easily triggered and sometimes more difficult to connect with. There are moments when I find myself searching for the qualities I remember, wondering how much of what I am seeing belongs to the man he has always been, how much reflects the burdens he has carried throughout his life, and how much may be influenced by the disease.
I do not know where one ends and another begins.
And perhaps that uncertainty is part of what makes it so difficult.
When someone has spent a lifetime being strong, determined and self-reliant, we can become accustomed to seeing them as almost indestructible.
We forget that the same person who carried everyone else's burdens may one day need help carrying his own.
We forget that the person who once organised, directed and solved problems may eventually have to confront difficulties that cannot be resolved through determination alone.
We forget that the qualities through which we have always understood someone may become harder to recognise as illness changes the way they live and interact with the world.
There is a particular sadness in watching someone who once seemed capable of anything struggle with things that were once ordinary.
And there is another sadness that is harder to explain: the feeling of missing someone who has not actually gone.
You can sit beside your father and still find yourself longing for the version of him whose voice, mannerisms, responses and presence made you feel that you knew exactly who he was.
You can love the person in front of you while grieving the changes that have taken place.
You can feel frustration in the moment and guilt about feeling frustrated afterwards.
You can wish that conversations were easier, that his reactions were different, that the familiar warmth of earlier years were more readily accessible, and then feel ashamed of wishing for something that illness may have made difficult.
These feelings can coexist.
Love does not make every experience easy. Gratitude does not erase sadness. Understanding someone else's difficulties does not mean that we cease to experience our own.
Perhaps this is one of the hardest lessons of caring about someone through a long illness: learning to hold contradictory emotions without allowing one to cancel the other.
My father is still my father.
He is still the man whose life, work, determination and experiences helped shape mine.
Parkinson's has changed his circumstances profoundly, but it cannot erase the significance of the life he lived before the disease, the projects he pursued, the responsibilities he carried or the resilience that helped shape our family.
I do not know when the illness first began to influence aspects of his life beyond the physical symptoms that eventually became apparent. I do not know whether certain personality changes were part of the same process or whether they reflected other aspects of his character and experience.
But I do know that, looking back, I sometimes wish I had understood more about what he was experiencing and what might have been changing beneath the surface.
Perhaps we all make this mistake with the people we love.
We assume that the person we know today will continue to be the person we know tomorrow. We take familiar conversations, ordinary routines and recognisable responses for granted.
We believe there will be time to understand them better, time to ask the questions we have never asked, time to appreciate the qualities we may not fully recognise until they begin to change.
And then life reminds us that nothing remains exactly as it was.
Twenty-four years of fighting
When I consider the length of my father's journey with Parkinson's, I am struck by the persistence required to live with a condition that changes so much about everyday life.
For someone who built so much of his identity around being capable, responsible and self-reliant, the experience of being unable to work as he once did must represent a profound change.
Work was not simply something he did. It seemed to occupy a central place in how he approached life.
He was a man who liked to organise, build, take responsibility and keep moving forward. His instinct was to engage with problems and find ways to solve them.
But Parkinson's is not a project that can simply be worked harder until it is completed.
There is no amount of determination that can guarantee a return to the life someone once had. There is no organisational skill that can eliminate every uncertainty. There is no professional achievement that can insulate a person from the vulnerability of illness.
This is where the limits of our usual definitions of success become painfully clear.
If we measure a person's worth by their productivity, what happens when illness takes away their ability to work?
If we measure success by independence, what happens when independence becomes harder to maintain?
If we measure achievement by the responsibilities a person can carry, what happens when they must learn to live with circumstances they cannot control?
Does the value of a person diminish because their circumstances have changed?
Of course it does not.
And yet our society often finds it easier to celebrate what people accomplish than to recognise who they are when accomplishment is no longer possible in the same way.
We celebrate the person who builds the business, leads the organisation or makes a significant contribution to their profession.
We are less practised at recognising the courage required simply to continue living with dignity when the future has changed beyond recognition.
But there is courage in that, too.
There is courage in adapting to a body that no longer responds as it once did. There is courage in confronting uncertainty day after day. There is courage in continuing to participate in family life, even when ordinary interactions become more difficult.
There is courage in enduring a long struggle without knowing exactly how the next chapter will unfold.
My father still has that inner fight in him.
Twenty-four years on, he is still here, still navigating the difficulties of his condition, still part of our family and still the man whose life has given me so much to reflect upon.
I cannot pretend that this makes the journey easy, or that perseverance somehow compensates for everything Parkinson's has taken away.
But I can recognise the determination it takes to keep going.
Perhaps we need a broader definition of strength.
Sometimes strength is the ability to take charge and build something extraordinary.
Sometimes it is the ability to accept help when taking charge is no longer possible.
Sometimes it is the determination to keep going.
And sometimes it is simply enduring another difficult day without knowing what tomorrow will bring.
My father has shown me different forms of strength across different stages of his life.
The man who once carried enormous professional responsibilities and the man who now lives with the daily realities of Parkinson's are not two entirely separate people. They are different chapters of the same life.
I want to remember both.
What do I want my children to learn?
As I reflect on my father's life, I inevitably think about my own children.
What do I want them to inherit from the generations before them? Which qualities should they preserve, and which lessons should they learn differently?
I want them to inherit their grandfather's determination.
I want them to be curious, analytical and willing to work hard. I want them to develop the confidence to take responsibility, the courage to face difficulties and the resilience to continue when things do not go their way.
I want them to understand that meaningful achievements rarely come without effort.
But I do not want them to believe that hard work alone is enough.
I want them to understand people.
To recognise that another person's perspective may be different without being entirely wrong. To know when to stand firm and when to compromise. To be strong enough to admit a mistake, secure enough to celebrate someone else's success and wise enough to know that winning an argument is not always the same as resolving a problem.
I want them to learn the art of making people feel valued.
Not because they should manipulate others into liking them, but because every person they encounter has an inner world that deserves consideration.
I want them to be the kind of people others can approach without fear, work alongside without unnecessary tension and trust when things become difficult.
I want them to understand that flexibility is not weakness, kindness is not surrender and patience is not a lack of conviction.
And I want them to learn to delegate.
To understand that they do not need to prove their worth by doing everything themselves. That leadership is not about being indispensable, but about helping other people become capable. That there is real strength in building a team whose collective ability exceeds what any one individual could accomplish.
Most importantly, I want them to enjoy their lives.
To have hobbies. To develop friendships. To share meals, laugh freely, explore new interests and make time for experiences that have no obvious professional value.
I want them to understand that not every hour needs to be productive to be worthwhile.
Some of the most important things in life cannot be measured by output.
A conversation with a friend. A moment of quiet. A walk without a destination. The ability to sit with someone who is struggling and offer them your full attention.
These things may not advance a career, but they can enrich a life.
I want my children to have ambition without allowing ambition to consume them. I want them to recognise that their professional identity is only one part of who they are.
I want them to understand that they can be successful without making themselves indispensable, respected without making others feel inferior, and influential without becoming manipulative.
And I want them to have a moral compass that does not depend entirely on whether their behaviour is being observed.
Whether they ultimately understand that moral compass through spirituality, philosophy, empathy or a personal sense of responsibility, I want them to ask themselves difficult questions.
Was I fair? Did I take advantage of someone? Did I use my abilities to contribute something worthwhile? Did I treat people with dignity when I had the power not to?
If they choose to follow a spiritual path, I want them to approach it sincerely, not as a way of securing worldly rewards.
I want them to understand karma not as a guarantee that good behaviour will always produce a comfortable life, but as a reminder that our intentions and actions deserve careful consideration.
I want them to be grateful when things go well without assuming that success makes them superior to others.
And when things go badly, I want them to have the resilience to keep going without assuming that every disappointment is a punishment or that they must somehow have failed spiritually.
Above all, I want them to understand that success is not simply about reaching the top.
It is about the person they become while trying to get there.
So, what is success really?
I return to the question with which I began.
Is success simply the outcome of intelligence, hard work, likability and strategic decision-making?
Or is it a combination of these things with luck, timing, circumstances and, for those who believe, divine grace?
I suspect that no single explanation can account for every human life.
There are people whose brilliance is never fully recognised. There are people whose opportunities exceed their abilities. There are people who achieve remarkable things through integrity and collaboration, and others who rise through methods that deserve no admiration.
There are people who work tirelessly and never receive the rewards they hoped for. There are people who seem to encounter one blessing after another.
We should be cautious about pretending that we know precisely why every life unfolds as it does.
But perhaps the uncertainty itself contains an important lesson.
We can work hard without assuming that every outcome is within our control.
We can develop our social intelligence without sacrificing our principles.
We can pursue success without treating other people as stepping stones.
We can remain open to the possibility of divine grace without imagining that we have discovered a formula for obtaining it.
And we can take the idea of karma seriously without assuming that every misfortune is deserved or every success is proof of virtue.
For me, the deepest question is not whether the universe guarantees that good people will prosper.
It is whether we can choose to live well even when we cannot guarantee the outcome.
Can we remain honest when dishonesty might be more profitable? Can we be generous when nobody is likely to reward us? Can we acknowledge another person's success without envy? Can we accept that someone else's misfortune does not make us more deserving of our own good fortune?
Can we continue to cultivate our inner lives even when external circumstances do not appear to reward us for doing so?
These are questions of character, but they are also questions of spirituality.
They ask us to consider whether our lives are governed entirely by the pursuit of visible rewards, or whether we are prepared to live according to values that remain meaningful even when nobody else is watching.
I do not know exactly how karma operates. I cannot establish the role of divine blessings in every fortunate event. I cannot tell you why one person encounters opportunity while another encounters hardship.
But I do know that the possibility of a deeper moral and spiritual order gives me reason to pause before treating worldly success as the ultimate measure of a life.
Perhaps success is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. Perhaps luck determines some of the doors that open. Perhaps grace is how we understand the gifts we cannot explain. And perhaps karma reminds us that, whatever our circumstances, the way we choose to live still matters.
The things I wish I had understood sooner
When I think about my father now, I find myself looking back at his life through a different lens.
When I was younger, I saw his determination, his intellect and his extraordinary capacity for work. I saw someone who could take on responsibility, organise projects and keep going when other people might have stopped.
As I have grown older, I have become more conscious of the other dimensions of a life.
The relationships we cultivate. The opportunities we recognise. The people we bring alongside us. The experiences we allow ourselves to enjoy. The ways in which our personalities can help us or hinder us.
I sometimes wonder whether my father could have achieved even more if he had found greater ease in his relationships, trusted others to share his responsibilities and allowed himself more of the lighter experiences that bring people together.
But I also recognise that I am looking back with the benefit of hindsight. I know things now that I did not know then, and I am asking questions that may not have been obvious to him at the time.
His circumstances shaped him. His experiences shaped him. The demands of his life shaped him.
And then Parkinson's changed the landscape of that life in ways that neither he nor we could simply work our way out of.
Perhaps this is what growing older really does to us.
We begin by judging people according to what they achieve. Later, we become more interested in understanding what shaped them.
We see that behind determination there may be fear. Behind independence there may be an experience of having no one to depend on. Behind a difficult personality there may be a lifetime of habits, pressures and experiences that we never fully understood.
This does not mean that every behaviour should be excused or that we should stop reflecting critically on the people we love.
It means that understanding requires us to look beyond the surface.
And perhaps that is the same lesson I keep returning to in my reflections on science, spirituality and success.
What we can see is not always the whole story.
We see the professional achievement, but not every opportunity that made it possible.
We see the person who rises, but not always the people who helped them along the way.
We see the illness, but not always the gradual changes that preceded its recognition.
We see the behaviour, but not necessarily the experiences that helped shape it.
And we see the success, but we do not always know what it cost.
Perhaps the most important quality we can develop is the willingness to look deeper without pretending that we can know everything.
The final lesson: what remains when achievement falls away?
My father has lived with Parkinson's for approximately twenty-four years.
I cannot change that journey. I cannot restore the years before the disease, remove the difficulties it has brought or answer every question that has accumulated as I have watched him live with it.
But I can reflect on what his life has meant to me.
I can admire the man who worked so hard, who carried so much responsibility and who had such a remarkable capacity for determination.
I can acknowledge that some aspects of his personality may have made relationships and professional life more complicated.
I can wonder whether a different balance between work, relationships and enjoyment might have allowed some of his strengths to travel further.
And I can recognise that his life was shaped not only by the qualities he possessed, but also by circumstances he could not entirely control.
I do not want to reduce my father to a list of achievements or missed opportunities.
He is not a career trajectory that can be assessed against an imagined alternative.
He is a human being who lived through his own circumstances, made his own choices, carried his own burdens and continued to fight through a long and difficult illness.
His story deserves more than a judgement about how far he climbed.
It deserves understanding.
And perhaps that is the most important thing I have learned from reflecting on his life.
We spend so much time measuring ourselves against the world. We ask whether we are successful enough, influential enough, wealthy enough, clever enough or admired enough.
We compare our careers with those of our peers. We wonder whether we could have achieved more. We examine the decisions we made and imagine the lives that might have unfolded had we taken a different path.
There is nothing wrong with ambition. It can motivate us to develop our abilities, overcome difficulties and make a meaningful contribution.
But ambition becomes a poor master when it convinces us that our worth depends entirely on how far we rise.
Because none of us knows how much time we will have, how our health will change, which opportunities will appear or what circumstances may eventually ask of us.
We may spend decades building a career, only to discover that our circumstances have changed in ways we never anticipated.
We may devote ourselves to becoming indispensable, only to find that the world must continue without our contribution.
We may spend years pursuing recognition, only to realise that the people whose opinions matter most were never measuring us by the standards we had set for ourselves.
And we may postpone enjoyment, friendship and connection because we believe there will always be time for them later.
But later is not something any of us can guarantee.
My father's story has made this truth more personal for me.
I remember the man who could work tirelessly, take charge and carry enormous responsibilities. I see the man who has endured Parkinson's for more than two decades. I recognise the determination that continues to run through his story, even as his circumstances have changed.
And I sometimes find myself wondering about the things that matter most when the professional achievements, the responsibilities and the outward signs of success are no longer the central features of a person's life.
What remains?
The work we completed may remain in the world. The projects we built may continue to serve others. The ideas we shared may influence people we never meet.
But there is something else that remains, too.
The memories people carry of us.
The way we made them feel. The lessons they learned by watching us. The kindness we showed when we had nothing to gain. The courage we demonstrated when life became difficult. The ways in which our strengths inspired them, and the ways in which our struggles encouraged them to think differently about their own lives.
My father's determination has left its mark on me.
So have the questions I have found myself asking as I have watched his journey unfold.
I want to carry forward his curiosity, his resilience and his willingness to work hard. I also want to learn from the things I have questioned, to build relationships more consciously, to make room for enjoyment and to recognise that a successful life requires more than the ability to keep going.
And I want my children to understand that they do not have to choose between ambition and kindness, or between achievement and a meaningful inner life.
They can work hard and still make time for their families.
They can be strong and still be gentle.
They can pursue influence without manipulating others.
They can strive for success while recognising the role of luck, opportunity and the help they receive.
They can remain open to divine grace without assuming that every fortunate event is a reward or every hardship a punishment.
And they can build lives that are ambitious on the outside and grounded on the inside.
Perhaps this is where my reflections on karma, spirituality and success finally meet.
I cannot prove that every life follows a divine plan. I cannot explain why some people receive opportunities that others never encounter. I cannot tell you exactly how karma operates, or why illness enters one family's life and not another's.
But I can choose to live with humility, knowing that I do not control everything.
I can choose to act with integrity, even when dishonesty might offer a quicker route to success.
I can choose to cultivate relationships rather than treat people as instruments of advancement.
I can choose to remain curious about the world and about myself.
And I can choose to believe that there is value in becoming a better human being, even when that improvement brings no immediate professional reward.
Perhaps that is what spirituality offers me: not a guarantee that life will be fair, but a way of understanding my place within it.
A reminder that I am not the sole architect of my circumstances, that other people matter, that my intentions deserve scrutiny and that there may be more to existence than the outcomes I can measure.
And perhaps karma, at its most useful, reminds us that we should care about the consequences of our actions even when we cannot see where they will lead.
I began by asking whether success is simply the result of intelligence, hard work and likability.
I find myself ending with a different question.
What if the greatest success is not to get as far ahead as possible, but to become someone who can look back on their life with gratitude, integrity and love?
Someone who worked hard without allowing work to consume everything.
Someone who developed their talents without becoming arrogant about them.
Someone who enjoyed the company of others, helped people grow and left relationships stronger than they found them.
Someone who recognised their blessings without assuming they were more deserving than those who had less.
Someone who remained curious enough to keep learning, humble enough to question themselves and spiritually open enough to accept that some mysteries may never be fully explained.
And someone who, when life eventually demanded more than they could control, had something deeper than professional achievement on which to draw.
I think of my father and the extraordinary energy he devoted to his life. I think of the things he built, the responsibilities he carried and the determination that helped him keep going.
I think, too, of the years he has spent living with Parkinson's, and of the many ways a long illness can change a person's circumstances, relationships and sense of self.
There is sadness in recognising how much can change.
There is gratitude in remembering what came before.
And there is something profoundly human in continuing to love someone through both.
I cannot return to the past and tell my father what I have come to understand. I cannot know whether he would agree with my reflections or whether he would see his life differently.
But I can carry those reflections forward.
I can let them influence how I live, how I treat people, how I approach my work and what I teach my children.
I can try to ensure that the next generation inherits not only the determination to achieve, but also the wisdom to recognise what is worth achieving.
And perhaps that is one of the most meaningful things we can do for the people who came before us: not to judge their lives by what might have been, but to allow their lives to help us live ours more thoughtfully.
Because one day, our children will look back at us, too.
They will remember the things we worked for, the responsibilities we carried, the choices we made and the ways we treated the people around us.
They may admire some of our qualities and question others. They may wonder whether we worked too hard, worried too much, enjoyed ourselves too little or allowed certain opportunities to pass us by.
They will form their own understanding of success from the lives they witnessed.
I hope they see in me someone who tried to work hard without forgetting to live, to succeed without losing integrity, and to remain open to the possibility that there is a deeper purpose to existence than the pursuit of recognition.
And I hope they understand that, whatever their professional achievements, they will never have to earn the right to be loved by becoming more successful.
My father does not need to achieve another professional milestone for his life to matter.
He does not need to prove his intelligence again, carry another responsibility or demonstrate that he can overcome one more obstacle.
His life has already mattered.
It mattered in the years when he worked tirelessly. It mattered in the responsibilities he carried. It mattered in the family he helped shape. And it matters now, through the long and difficult journey he continues to navigate.
Parkinson's may have changed his life, but it cannot retrospectively diminish the person he was or the meaning of the years he has lived.
Perhaps this is the lesson I most want to remember.
Our worth is not measured by how long we remain productive, how high we climb or how much the world applauds us. It is not erased when our circumstances change, when illness limits us or when we can no longer be the person we once were.
We are more than our achievements.
We are more than our careers.
We are more than the qualities that made us successful in one particular chapter of our lives.
We are human beings, shaped by circumstances we did not choose, capable of extraordinary things and vulnerable to changes we cannot always prevent.
And perhaps the true measure of success is not simply what we accomplish while we have the strength to do it.
Perhaps it is also the wisdom we develop, the kindness we show, the relationships we nurture, the courage with which we face adversity and the love that remains when everything else changes.
My father has spent much of his life fighting.
First, perhaps, to establish himself and build his future. Then, through the long years of Parkinson's, to continue living with a condition that has changed so much about his world.
I cannot take away the struggle.
But I can honour it by learning from it.
I can remember the extraordinary determination of the man he was, show compassion for the difficulties he faces now, and recognise that his life has given me lessons that no professional qualification or career achievement could teach.
And when I look at my children, I hope I can pass those lessons on.
Work hard. Be curious. Develop your talents. Learn how to work with people. Build friendships. Enjoy your life. Stay true to your conscience. Remain grateful for your blessings. Be open to the mysteries you cannot explain.
And never become so preoccupied with reaching the top that you forget the people walking beside you.
Because one day, the titles will matter less, the professional responsibilities will fall away, and the opportunities we once chased will belong to the past.
What will remain is the life we lived, the people we loved, the difference we made and the memories we leave behind.
Perhaps success is not simply about how far we climb.
Perhaps it is about how we climb, whom we bring with us, and whether we can look back without feeling that we sacrificed the most important parts of ourselves along the way.
And perhaps, when all is said and done, the greatest blessing is not that we get everything we ever wanted.
It is that we learn to recognise what truly matters before time teaches us, in ways we never expected, what we can no longer take for granted.
I want my children to inherit their grandfather's determination, but I also want them to inherit the wisdom to live more lightly. To work hard, but not endlessly. To be strong, but not unyielding. To succeed, but not at the expense of their conscience or their relationships.
And if they can do that, perhaps they will have achieved something more meaningful than simply climbing higher than the generation before them.
Perhaps they will have taken the struggles, sacrifices and lessons of the people who came before them and transformed them into a life lived with greater awareness, greater compassion and greater joy.
That, to me, would be a blessing worth far more than professional recognition.
That would be success.
And if, at the end of my own life, my children can look back and say that I worked hard, loved deeply, treated people fairly, remained curious about the mysteries of existence and helped them understand what really matters, I think I would be content.
Because perhaps the final question is not whether we have been successful enough in the eyes of the world.
Perhaps it is whether, in the time we were given, we learned to become the kind of people we would be proud to leave behind.
We cannot control every circumstance, guarantee every blessing or know exactly where our journey will lead. But we can choose how we treat people, what we stand for and what we pass on. And perhaps that is where success, spirituality and the meaning of a human life finally meet.
