By Courtney McIntosh | Imagery by Uzuri
Each year, as the calendar folds toward Christmas, the noise begins to swell. Inbox reminders, end-of-year deadlines, school concerts, social catch-ups are filling the diary and that quiet, invisible pressure humming underneath it all: keep up.
I used to meet this season head-on with a kind of kinetic energy. My success was measured by how much I could produce between the cracks of life; what I could build in the hours between school naps and school drop off and pick up, the emails fired off from the car line, the campaigns signed off before bedtime stories.
My ambition lived in motion. The faster I moved, the more alive I felt.
But somewhere between the sleepless nights, the school runs, and this third pregnancy, my definition of ambition began to shift. What once felt like fuel now feels like noise. I’ve started to crave something quieter. A version of drive that’s slower, smarter, and more human.
December has a way of amplifying our attachment to achievement. The end of the year can make even the calmest among us feel like we’re falling behind if we’re not sprinting toward a finish line. But motherhood (and in particular, this third pregnancy), has shown me that life doesn’t move in quarters; it moves in seasons.
There are seasons for building, and seasons for becoming. Seasons where everything feels in bloom, and others where rest looks like progress, even if the world doesn’t recognise it as such.
For so long, my ambition was built on proof. I wanted to show that motherhood could be expansive and that creativity, business, and identity could coexist if I was organised enough, determined enough, or caffeinated enough.
And if I’m honest, I was also trying to prove something to myself; that I was still capable, still relevant, still me underneath it all.
That kind of ambition burns bright, but it also burns fast. It’s built on momentum instead of meaning. You can’t pause to appreciate what you’ve built because you’re already racing toward the next thing.
Eventually, you realise that the goalposts keep moving. The inbox is never empty. The feeling of enough never arrives. Ambition, when built on proving something, even to yourself, becomes a race you can’t win.
Pregnancy (and perhaps age) has a way of softening the edges. It slows the body, and with it, the ego.
These days, my ambition hasn’t faded, it’s simply become more deliberate. I still work hard and chase the things that light me up, but with clearer intention. It’s less about doing everything at once, and more about building with longevity in mind. A timeline that stretches over decades, not days.
I no longer want to build everything; I want to build what lasts. Platforms that serve. Stories that matter. Work that supports women long after I’ve logged off.
The drive hasn’t disappeared; it’s matured. It’s become less about speed and more about stewardship, caring for the ideas and people that sustain the work.
As the year draws to a close, the temptation to sprint is everywhere. But I’m reminding myself, and maybe you, too that nothing meaningful grows in a constant state of acceleration. For me, ambition after baby three isn’t smaller. It’s wiser. It understands that there’s a season for pushing and a season for pausing. A season for creating, and a season for becoming.
So if you’re standing in that same in-between and perhaps tired, hopeful, wondering if you’re still as driven as you once were, know this: You are. You’ve just evolved.
Your ambition is still alive; it’s simply resting in a deeper place, waiting for its next season. And when it rises again, it will be softer but stronger, slower but surer, and entirely your own.
How will you redefine success in your next season?
