A book deal at 23. A stellar career. An enviable lifestyle. But AMY MOLLOY says: 'Being a success is lonely and so joyless. I wish I was mediocre like my friends'

High achiever: Amy Molloy says it's hard being a lonely and joyless high-achiever. 'I wish I could be mediocre', she says

Every few months I meet up with a friend and our evening follows a pattern.

Now in her 30s, she tends to crash from one career crisis to another and inevitably will have just quit one job and be searching for her next.



She’ll arrive with a hangover, minus her wallet, meaning she won’t be able to pay for dinner.



At some point during the meal, she will always say the same thing: ‘You’re so lucky, Amy — you’re so driven and successful.’ She envies my life, my career, my salary, my prospects.



But the truth is I envy her failure. It’s hard being a lonely and joyless high-achiever. I wish I could be mediocre.



From a young age, my drive to succeed has been overpowering. My mother says that even when I was a toddler, I lived at an accelerated pace, always busy, always striving.



When I was ten, my class would be tested on their times tables every Friday and my dad and I spent two hours every night practising. It’s not that I had pushy parents — they only did what I asked of them. As a child, I remember thriving on feeling superior to my classmates.



I was a straight-A student from primary school to university, where I studied journalism. I got my first job as soon as I graduated, working at a national newspaper, and was repeatedly promoted until I was the editor of a leading fashion magazine by the time I turned 28.



I also set myself the goal of having a book published by 30 and beat my target, signing a publishing deal at 23 for a sum large enough to get me on the property ladder.



Listing my achievements may sound boastful, but I’m not trying to make people envious of me. Quite the opposite.



Being successful is torturous. It’s isolating — you lose weekends, holidays and (if you’re not careful) your social life.



Some people can struggle to be around the super-successful. They think I’m looking down on them and maybe sometimes, subconsciously, I am.



My very high standards are not limited to my professional life.



I was a champion gymnast as a child and have run seven marathons as an adult. My diet is stringent — I don’t have alcohol or sugar.



If you think I sound boring, you’re not the first — I’m not fighting off social invitations. Dinner with my scatty, jobless friend is often the only night out on my calendar.



My husband and I met in an exercise class when I was 24, just as my book was published. A few months after we started dating he asked why he hadn’t met many of my friends. I had to admit I didn’t have any.



I could use the excuse that women are jealous of me, but it’s not that simple. It’s true I have been the victim of envy, with supposed friends accusing me of getting ‘too big for my boots’.

However, I’ve also never made an effort to build bridges with those I see as less ambitious than I am.



For a long time, I saw socialising as a waste of time and money.



In my first year at university, I did try to embrace the drinking culture, but by the second year, I couldn’t keep up the pretence of caring. While my flatmates were partying, I’d be slaving over my coursework.



DID YOU KNOW?

41 per cent of people in their 20s feel stressed. Just 15 per cent said the same 40 years ago

Did that make me a bore? Yes, but I’d rather be a bore than be in second place.



Maybe I would have formed allegiances in the workplace if I hadn’t been fast-tracked up the career ladder so quickly. When I was promoted to editor of the fashion magazine, I heard a lot of unkind whispers.



I was referred to as the ‘golden child’ — and it wasn’t meant as a compliment. Like many high-achievers, I’m extremely self-critical, so I just added their doubts to my own.



While my parents are proud of me, they always play down my achievements. My mum rightly says: ‘No parent should be in awe of their children.’ My older sister is a biochemist who oversees medical trials and is also a world champion triathlete.



My parents’ house in Buckinghamshire is full of trophies from our sporting achievements, yet victory is so normal that it’s greeted with indifference.



And I will admit that I find having such a driven personality to be debilitating.



Sometimes on a Saturday morning, I lie in bed and cry, knowing I have two options for the weekend: to work and feel exhausted or take time off and battle the guilt that I’m lazy.



Author: My husband and I met in an exercise class when I was 24, just as my book was published

My husband, John, 43, a recruitment consultant, is a lot more laidback than I am. He works to live, while I live to work.



He’s a calming influence on me. He says his job is to make me relax, which isn’t an easy task, but he often tricks me into it. He invites me to go for a cycle ride, knowing I see this as beneficial to my health, but then will make sure he pedals slowly, so it turns into a leisure activity.



His favourite coffee shop has no mobile phone reception, so he knows that I can’t check my emails there.



We want children, though I initially worried about the effect starting a family would have on my career prospects. However, John is open to the idea of being a stay-at-home father, which eases many of my concerns. Though it sounds odd, I worry that my children will also be high achievers.



It’s a burden, so I hope that, unlike me, they will be happy rather than successful. You make all those sacrifices — yet eventually, you gradually lose your love for your career.



I never feel satisfied. Within weeks of every promotion or pay rise I become agitated, as my feet itch to move forward.



I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I’m only at the beginning of my career and have no idea how I’ll maintain the same pace.



I earn more money than I need. In theory, I could cut down on my workload and still pay my mortgage.



But I’m waiting for that epiphany moment — that moment when I wake up and feel proud of myself; when I feel that I am worth something.



My worst fear is that my biggest success is behind me. What if I’m a 20-year-old prodigy and a 30-year-old has-been?



It may sound like everything I touch turns to gold, but I’ve had many failures. I have probably missed 90 per cent of all the targets I have set for myself.



The difference is I shoot for ten times more than the average person and it’s these few victories that make me seem exceptional. But I’m certainly not immune to failure. Three months ago, I lost my job, when the magazine I edited folded.



I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I’m only at the beginning of my career and have no idea how I’ll maintain the same pace

Walking out of the meeting with human resources, I was surprisingly calm. I texted my husband and parents with the news; I didn’t want to deal with their sympathy.



While all my colleagues commiserated each other in the local bar, I went for a jog, alone, to plot my next course of action.



Now that I’m a freelance writer, my ambitions have no boundaries. When I was an editor and woke up in the middle of the night with a brainwave, I forced myself to go back to sleep, knowing I couldn’t act until I got into the office the next morning.



Now I can work any time — and I do. Even my husband, who is usually so understanding, complains that I spend the entire week locked in my office at home.



It’s rare that I have genuine fun and the closest I get to relaxing is reading a magazine for research. I watch people laughing in cafes and wish I could be that idle.



I’m beginning to see how one-dimensional — not to mention boring — a life fuelled by ambition can be.



So next time your colleague is promoted or gets a pay rise, don’t be too quick to envy them.

