Success is survival.

Leonard Cohen, the poet of shadows and light, once declared: “Success is survival.” These words may sound austere, stripped of the glitter often draped around the idea of triumph, yet they carry the weight of deep and enduring wisdom. Cohen reminds us that true success is not measured by gold, applause, or titles, but by the simple, profound act of enduring. To rise each day despite hardship, to keep breathing when storms howl, to stand when others have fallen—that is the most ancient and noble crown of all: survival.

The ancients themselves knew this truth. The heroes of old were not always those who conquered empires, but those who endured the trials of fate. Odysseus was called great not merely because he was cunning, but because he survived years of exile, storms, and gods’ wrath, returning home scarred yet unbroken. Job, in the sacred scriptures, lost wealth, family, and health, yet his story is remembered because he endured, he clung to his soul through unbearable suffering. In both tales, survival itself became the mark of success.

Cohen’s words speak especially to those who live not in palaces, but in the valleys of despair. For them, victory is not the roar of crowds, but the quiet breath of another morning. Consider the story of Anne Frank, who, though hidden in terror, continued to write her thoughts, her hopes, her truth. She did not conquer armies, yet her endurance—her survival of spirit—has outlived tyrants. Her diary proves Cohen’s wisdom: sometimes, to keep faith in the midst of destruction is itself the greatest success.

This truth also belongs to the battlefield. In the frozen winter of 1812, Napoleon’s Grand Army marched into Russia with grandeur, but what was the end? Not glory, but ruin. For those soldiers, the definition of success changed: it was no longer conquest, but merely returning alive. Those who survived the frost and the hunger were the true victors, not those who perished beneath the weight of ambition. Cohen’s words echo here too: success is not always about triumphing over others—it is surviving the test of life itself.

Why is this wisdom so vital? Because it strips away the illusions of false crowns. The world tells us that success is fame, wealth, applause. But Cohen whispers the truth: if you survive—if you endure your trials without surrendering your soul—you have already succeeded. For the treasures of life are nothing if one does not endure to see them. To endure is to defy fate, to claim existence itself as victory.

The lesson is this: honor your own endurance. Do not despise the days when you merely “make it through,” for these days are not lesser—they are the very definition of success. If you are wounded but still breathing, broken but still standing, weary but still walking, then you are already triumphant. The world’s measures may not see it, but the ancients and the wise do. To survive is to live another day to love, to hope, to rise again.

Practical wisdom follows: when you are in hardship, shift your measure of success. Do not demand perfection or conquest. Instead, ask: Did I endure? Did I keep my soul alive? Did I make it through this storm? If the answer is yes, then count it as victory. From such survival, greater triumphs may grow. For no empire, no song, no creation ever arose except from those who first endured.

So remember Cohen’s words as a law for all ages: “Success is survival.” Carry them into your darkest nights, when crowns are far and strength is little. Let them remind you that enduring the storm is itself heroic. And when you rise again at dawn, know that you have already won the most essential victory: to live on, to bear witness, to continue the song of life.