My obsession with gold stars began in kindergarten. At the ripe age of five, I was already learning that my value would come from good behavior in the eyes of someone taller, or bigger than me. I remember the chart on the primary colored walls, where my name was stacked between all the other names of my tiny competitors. Every morning, I put my jacket and backpack away neatly in my cubby, star for me. I cleaned up my art supplies and tidied my desk, star for me. I stood in a single file line, raised my finger with one hand, and picked my nose with the other, another star for me. At the end of the day, when it was time to clock out, I would see my progression, and relish in the feeling of seeing myself ahead with a few more stars than others. It obviously meant I was special and superior. I’d go home, smug and satisfied with myself, giddy to tell my mother and father the laborious day I had to achieve those damn stars; they’d be impressed by my tenacity and grit that they would be obligated to treat me to a happy meal or maybe even a new toy. My path was set, and I was absolutely hooked. I had found my purpose. Pleasing others, would please myself, and my value would be clear as day, all I had to do was strategize, optimize, and acquire my stars and stay ahead.