Personally, I don't like the term 'success.' It's too arbitrary

“Personally, I don't like the term 'success.' It's too arbitrary and too relative a thing. It's usually someone else's definition, not yours.” So spoke Ichiro Suzuki, master of the bat and servant of discipline, a man who transcended nations to become one of the greatest to grace the game of baseball. His words are quiet, yet they thunder with wisdom: success as men commonly use the word is a mirage, a shifting image defined not by the soul but by the judgment of others. To chase it blindly is to wander in the desert, thirsting always and never satisfied.

The origin of this teaching lies in Ichiro’s life itself. Born in Japan, he faced doubts and resistance when he sought to enter Major League Baseball in America. Many questioned his size, his style, his ability to endure. Yet he was never distracted by their definitions of greatness. He pursued his craft with relentless precision, focusing not on others’ applause but on the daily act of preparation, consistency, and excellence. In his eyes, success was not a trophy, nor a title, nor the cheers of the crowd. It was the quiet fulfillment of doing what he loved with integrity, no matter how the world chose to name it.

History bears witness to the emptiness of external definitions. Consider the life of Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome. To the world he was crowned with every form of earthly success—wealth, power, command of legions. Yet in his private meditations, he warned himself that fame is fleeting, that the praises of men are dust. He measured his life not by the empire’s approval, but by the inner discipline of virtue. Like Ichiro, he knew that what most call “success” is arbitrary and relative, and that only one’s own definition, shaped by truth and purpose, can bring peace.

Ichiro’s words also expose a deeper danger: when men chase success as defined by others, they surrender their freedom. They allow society, critics, or rivals to dictate the measure of their worth. In doing so, they live as slaves to comparison, forever anxious, forever unsatisfied. How many artists have abandoned their true vision to please the crowd? How many leaders have forsaken justice to secure applause? The pursuit of borrowed definitions is the slow poison of the soul.

Yet there is another path—the path of authenticity. To walk it is to ask not, “What does the world call success?” but rather, “What is my purpose? What is the work I must do, regardless of the world’s recognition?” For one, it may be raising a family with love. For another, it may be crafting beauty in obscurity. For another still, it may be honing a skill day by day, unseen, unpraised, but true. In this lies the freedom Ichiro hints at: the freedom to define one’s own life, not by the noise of others, but by the harmony of one’s own soul.

The lesson is clear: beware the borrowed crowns of success. They shine brightly but weigh heavily, and they are easily taken away. Instead, carve your own path, one rooted in discipline, devotion, and love of what you do. Then even if the world remains silent, your heart will know peace. And if the world should cheer, you will not be enslaved by its praise, for you have already won the only victory that matters: faithfulness to yourself.

Therefore, let each person act wisely. Ask yourself: whose definition of success am I chasing? If it is not your own, release it. Define for yourself what it means to live well—whether in work, in family, in art, or in service—and pursue it with steadiness. For true success is not relative; it is absolute, rooted in the integrity of a life lived honestly. And those who live thus, like Ichiro, leave behind not only achievements, but a legacy of wisdom that outlasts any record book.