Employee of the God Complex

There’s a thin line between ambition and idolatry—and most of us don’t notice we’ve crossed it until the burnout hits, the joy disappears, or the job title feels heavier than the mission ever did. I remember journaling about it two years ago. I was sitting with the uncomfortable truth that my passion for excellence had started to eclipse the purpose behind it. I wrote: When does zeal become idolatry?

And I meant it. I wasn’t being poetic. I was being honest. I could feel it—my ambition was no longer about impact. It was about identity. That reflection became a mirror I’ve had to return to repeatedly. And it’s shaped how I move through the field of HR today—though now, I prefer to call it what it really is: people and culture. Because language matters. And so do people.

Work That Worships

And by “worship,” I don’t mean religion. I mean reverence. I mean intention. I mean the quiet kind of devotion that doesn’t need to be loud to be real. The kind that shows up in how you prepare, how you serve, how you build. Work that isn’t about applause, but about alignment. Not about proving anything—but about being present and whole while you give what you’ve got.

For me, work as worship means bringing my hands and heart to something more meaningful than a paycheck. It means building with care, contributing with clarity, serving with joy. But over time—especially in high-performance spaces—that posture got replaced. I was taught to chase output instead of insight. Told that if I just achieved enough, I’d finally be enough.

And that’s when everything started to shift. The work stopped being rooted in purpose and started being shaped by pressure. I wasn’t showing up with reverence anymore. I was showing up with something to prove. Slowly, I stopped offering the work from a grounded place and started performing it from a fragile one. I let the job tell me who I was.

But the truth is—work was never meant to carry that weight. It can be an offering. It can be an act of alignment. But it can’t be the source of worth. It can’t be the container for identity. Because once it starts carrying more than it was built to hold, it stops being worship and starts being survival.

Work Is Good. But It’s Not God.

Work, in itself, is good. It’s part of divine design. These hands were made to build, shape, serve, and solve. There’s something holy about contribution. But when the outcome starts feeding the ego more than it fuels the mission—when the desire to be known overshadows the responsibility to be accountable—that’s when the good thing becomes a god thing. That’s when work shifts from being rooted in purpose to being driven by fear. Fear of being overlooked. Fear of not mattering. Fear of falling behind or being found out. And that fear gets loud. It dresses up like hustle. It calls itself passion.

It wears the badge of “only one who understands.” But underneath it all, it’s not confidence—it’s clinging. Clinging to tasks and titles, forgetting I was whole long before a job description ever tried to define me. It’s easy to confuse being needed with being valuable. But when the cracks in the system start to show, and I begin to see them as cracks in myself—that’s the danger. The structure may be flawed, but that flaw doesn’t belong to me. My worth was never supposed to be measured by how well I carry what was broken to begin with.

People Are Not Resources

This shift in perspective is exactly why I do the work I do now—through the lens of people and culture, not just HR. I’ve spent years crafting systems that honor the humanity behind the job description, because I believe the workplace should be a space where people are guided, not punished; seen, not suppressed. Leadership isn’t about control—it’s about connection. People don’t show up to be managed. They show up to be seen. And let’s be clear: people are not resources to be extracted or optimized like machines. They are living reflections—carrying purpose, dignity, and creative power. They deserve better than performance-based belonging or conditional inclusion.

That’s why I design policies that make room for real people to thrive. I rethink systems that were built for output but not for wellbeing. I challenge the quiet norms that reward burnout and call it excellence. Because if your systems require people to disappear in order to succeed—they’re not just outdated. They’re broken.

The Cost of the Climb

The danger of tying your worth to your title is that one reorg, one layoff, one missed opportunity—and you’re undone. Suddenly, everything you thought grounded you feels shaky. Your confidence wavers, your direction blurs, and the voice in your head starts asking questions your résumé can’t answer. So many of us are walking around with résumés that say “leader,” but lives that whisper “lost.”

We’ve been conditioned to chase titles, to believe that what we do validates who we are. That the climb itself is the calling. But when your identity is built entirely on your role, the job stops being something you do—and starts becoming somewhere you live. You wake up inside of it, shrink to fit it, and stay tethered to it even after hours. And that’s not freedom. That’s bondage in a blazer—well-dressed, well-spoken, but quietly unraveling.

Purpose Over Performance

Let the mission matter again. Let your values lead again. Let your systems reflect the people you claim to care about. Let your work stop striving for applause and start standing in alignment. Because the truth is, you can be excellent without idolizing your output. You can lead with authority without losing your authenticity. You can take up space without needing your title to justify it. Let your work be worship again—not to your ego, but to your purpose. Let it be an offering, not a replacement. Because at the end of the day, you were never made to serve the job. The job was meant to serve the mission in you.

So this week, check your alignment. Ask yourself: Is my work reflecting my values, or just my vanity? Am I chasing applause, or answering a call? Let excellence be a byproduct of integrity, not insecurity. Let your presence carry more weight than your position. And above all, let your work make room for the mission—not the other way around.