Today, I received a LinkedIn invite from someone who, despite still being in college, plans to establish their own political party, secure a seat in government by 2026, and become President of the United States in 2040, when they are old enough.

I’ve been there. I know a lot of people who have.

Clearly, for some, the strategy works. Hell, our former Transportation Secretary—a very smart guy—built his entire life around planning to run for office. And there’s nothing wrong with aiming high, so long as you know why you’re doing it.

But seeing that LinkedIn profile, combined with the fact that this week marks 5 years since I left California for Kansas, transported me back in time for a moment to my own experience.

When I was in high school, I wanted to run for office. Desperately.

I told myself it was about making a difference, about serving my community, about fighting for what I believed in. And maybe some of that was true.

But beneath all of that was something else—something I didn’t want to admit to myself: I wanted to be seen. I wanted the validation that came with a title, the rush of people knowing my name, the feeling that I mattered in a way that felt bigger than myself.

I convinced myself my motives were pure, that I wasn’t just another ambitious guy chasing power. But looking back, I wonder—was I really fooling anyone but myself?

I was the kid who always made sure people knew when I was in charge. I practiced my “thoughtful listening” face in the mirror before debate tournaments, Model UN competitions, and campaign fundraisers. I craved being in the center of the room. And yet, I swore I wasn’t one of those people—the ones who saw politics as a personal brand.

The first real shift came five years ago, when I moved to Kansas—a month into the pandemic.

After high school, I made a drastic—possibly rash—choice. I didn’t go to a four-year college. I didn’t move to D.C. to start climbing the political ladder. I went to southeast Kansas.

On the surface, it was about a career opportunity: An internship at a nonprofit working on climate action in a rural community. I framed it as a deliberate step—an effort to bridge the urban-rural divide and bring new energy to sustainability work in a place that had long been overlooked.

At the time, I believed that framing. I talked about rural America being forgotten, about Midwestern hospitality, about how I was there to learn, grow, and do something meaningful.

And sure, some of that was true. But a lot of it was narrative—a story I told myself to feel in control, to feel noble, to feel like the kind of person who sacrifices for a cause.

My time in Kansas didn’t unfold the way I imagined.

I didn’t become the changemaker I hoped to be. I made a lot of mistakes, burned a lot of bridges, and treated my friends and peers poorly. I didn’t spark a rural sustainability renaissance. I struggled, more than I admitted to anyone at the time. Some of my choices weren’t as selfless as I wanted them to be, and I had to confront that.

Looking back now, I see how much of that move wasn’t about Kansas at all. It was about me—running from something, chasing something, even if I couldn’t name it yet.

But then, something unexpected happened.

A few months in, I met Ashley.

I fell in love. And that changed me more than any job or any campaign ever could. It saved me in ways I didn’t even realize I needed saving.

For all the big plans I had made—for all the ways I tried to script my life—this was the thing that actually reshaped me. Not politics. Just love.

As I reflect on the five-year anniversary of that move, a few lessons stand out:

• Ambition isn’t always altruistic. It’s easy to cloak ego in noble intentions. Harder to admit when your motives are mixed.
• Narratives are comfort. We tell ourselves stories to make sense of our lives. Sometimes, those stories get in the way of reality.
• The moments that change us aren’t always the ones we plan. They’re quiet. Personal. Unexpected.
• Love is the compass. It grounded me. It showed me a version of myself I didn’t know I needed to become.

So what now?

Like any teenager, I used to think I had all the answers. Five years later, I’m learning to ask better questions (and leaving politics the first time to become a journalist certainly helped). I’m finally being honest with myself.

I’m not perfect, and neither is life. There will always be room for improvement. But overall, things are good.