Last month, Malaysian digital illusionist Muhammad Sofian Abdullah, better known as Sofyank, stood on the red carpet in Tokyo as he shook hands with Tom Cruise at the world premiere of Mission: Impossible – The Final Reckoning.
This came after multiple collaborations with Zach King, his idol and global counterpart in the visual magic scene. Sofian is not even 30.
Then there’s the founder of Hausboom, who turned a bottled soda into a million-ringgit brand with international distribution. His brother, the man behind the clothing empire Bulan Bintang, made baju melayu fashionable for the TikTok generation. Both, still in their 20s, are hailed as entrepreneurial icons.
Scroll through any “30 Under 30” list and you’ll see the same story: youth, wealth, virality, impact. A race, it seems, to leave a legacy before you’ve even fully lived. Welcome to the age of too soon, too loud.
We live in a world obsessed with early success. Not just success – early success. The kind that makes headlines and bio blurbs. The kind that’s measurable, marketable, and Instagrammable. If you haven’t built something big, reached millions, or disrupted an industry by 30 – did you even try?
But here’s the problem: the louder the myth becomes, the more quietly we lose ourselves chasing it.
This pressure didn’t come from nowhere. It was built, layer by layer, by the forces around us – startup culture glorifying 19-year-old CEOs, motivational videos celebrating the “grind”, and social media algorithms that reward the loudest and most dramatic narratives. Overnight success stories trend. Quiet, meaningful growth doesn’t.
We’ve been sold a simple equation: the faster you go, the greater your worth. That the only legacy worth leaving is one that breaks records, makes millions, or turns you into a headline. But that’s a dangerous distortion. Because impact is not a function of speed or scale. And neither is purpose.
What’s rarely mentioned in these stories is the cost behind the scenes. The pressure to be remarkable by a certain age often breeds burnout, anxiety, and imposter syndrome. Young people feel the need to brand themselves, build audiences, and constantly perform – not because they know who they are, but because they think they should.
They start curating their lives for visibility rather than introspection. Posting instead of processing. Chasing applause before understanding what truly matters to them. When the measure of success is external – followers, funding, fame – it’s easy to lose the internal compass that makes success meaningful.
And what happens when the applause fades? When the next viral star rises? When your twenty-something self has already peaked – and you still have sixty more years to live?
There’s a quieter truth worth remembering: some of the most remarkable lives didn’t start loud.
American novelist and editor Toni Morrison published her first novel, The Bluest Eye, at the age of 39. Colonel Sanders famously didn’t franchise KFC until his 60s. Raymond Carver worked as a janitor before becoming one of the most respected short story writers of the 20th century. And here in our own tradition, countless teachers, thinkers, and artisans spent decades honing their craft in obscurity – only later to be recognised not for their noise, but for their depth.
There is wisdom in unfolding slowly.
Because growth isn’t always linear. And maturity isn’t always measurable. There’s a richness that comes from taking time – to reflect, to fail, to realign. The roots that go deepest often grow out of sight.
Mitch Albom once wrote in Tuesdays with Morrie: “Don’t let go too soon, but don’t hang on too long.” This line, like much of Albom’s writing, urges us toward rhythm, not rush. Toward timing that feels true, not imposed.
Your legacy, if you’re meant to leave one, doesn’t need to go viral. It needs to be honest.
So if you’re feeling the weight of “not doing enough” by a certain age – breathe. Not everyone’s clock ticks at the same tempo. Not every gift arrives early. And not every life needs to be televised to be meaningful.
Sometimes, the most beautiful legacy is built slowly, intentionally, and without fanfare. It’s found in quiet mentorship, in a lifetime of integrity, in the one person whose life you changed without ever posting about it.
Because the world doesn’t need a louder you. It needs a truer you.
The views expressed here are the personal opinion of the writer and do not necessarily represent that of Twentytwo13.
