Inspiraelevation

The Burden of Reality

February 22nd, 2026

What I’ve learned is this: Some people do not want you to be too great.

In a world of mediocrity, greatness gets you cast to the margins—pushed outside the tribe, labeled a fraud, and treated as though your excellence must be counterfeit.

To be great is to be doubted. To be disbelieved. To be called disingenuous.

No years of study, no disciplined practice, and no relentless application seem sufficient to move the stone wall of you couldn’t possibly have done this.

Why?

Because people are challenged by people they don’t know. And sometimes one’s capacity unsettles them.

The Great Illusion

One of the prevailing pushes is that as individuals we must strive for greatness. In some camps the push is more intense than in others. One wears the burden of progress on their shoulders, whether it be familial or historical.

Mantras such as “shoot for the stars” and “stay hungry.” Advisements based on intellectual studies push the 10,000 hours to the excellence standard.

But at the end of the day, when you are out on the field of endeavor, those words feel like wind—a blustery bluff pushing against those who dare to rise. When you ascend, climb the staircase that took you one step at a time, like Martin Luther King once emphasized. When you do the work, when you embody the discipline, nothing prepares you for the narrative shifts. Nothing prepares you for the suspicious guises and the targeted inquisition.

You realize for many who hold the positions of power, they deem it easier to elevate those of mediocrity than dare to admit another of whom they must stand shoulder to shoulder. They despise excellence, especially if it threatens position, even when there is no existing threat.

They say don’t shrink yourself. Stand tall. Speak up. And when you do, they dismantle the room you are standing in. They deconstruct your presence. They question your legitimacy, your belonging.

Flying to Close to the Sun

I’ve been pushed out of more companies than I care to name—for asking for more work, for standing on principle, for doing too much. For being too competent.

Some doubted I possessed the intellect to string together a coherent thought, let alone think on a level that would allow me to articulate a perspective that diverged from the masses. The audacity of having range. The audacity of depth.

To live in a space where you must go above and beyond simply to place something meaningful into the universe—and still endure speculative glances and whispered suppositions that question your integrity, your nature, and your craft—is exhausting beyond language.

To say I am not tired would be a lie.

There was a song written for the soundtrack of “The Fighting Temptations;” the lyrics are like well-worn gloves on my fingers.

“Seems like I’m always falling short of being worthy. I’m not good enough. But He still loves me. I’m no superstar; the spotlight ain’t shining on me… ’ Because I’m not good enough, but He still loves me. Some days I wake up and wish I had stayed asleep—because I went to bed on top of the world, and today the world is on top of me. Everybody has opinions, and they share them freely. They have never stood in my position, yet that does not stop them from narrating my story. And it breaks something in me to hear what they say.

I wish I could stand and declare, “Let’s revel in the lesson, pick up the mantle, and carry on.” But today it’s a little more challenging.

Through the Fire: Walk With Me

This journey is about openness and vulnerability. It is about truth without omission. It is about what it really means to be a phoenix.

And here is the truth about walking through fire: you will get burned.

The measure of where I stand when the dust settles—that will determine the weight of the words I espouse. Today, what I have is purpose, underscored in pain.
“Breaking Down to Break Through: The Symbolic Nature of Disintegration”

February 18th, 2026

We rarely talk about metamorphosis in human terms—what it actually costs a person or what you’re left with when the process is over. Usually, we just leave that concept to biology books and caterpillars. But transformation isn’t just for insects; it’s a deeply human requirement. Lately, I’ve realized that life is incredibly reflective. What happens out in nature is almost always a mirror for what’s unfolding inside of us. It isn’t something you just watch; it’s something you participate in.

Walking My Own Path

To give some context, I got my second tattoo back in 2022. Some people might find that surprising, but I’ve always been very intentional with my choices. My first was an image of Nefertiti.

Because it’s large and prominent, I get asked about it constantly. The answer is simple: it wasn’t an impulse. I’d wanted that specific image for as long as I can remember. Her name means “beauty has come,” and that resonated with me on a level that went way beyond aesthetics. It was a declaration of identity, a way of saying I had finally arrived.

About a year later, I got the butterfly. That choice came from a much heavier, more complicated place.

Sink or Soar

At the time, I was standing on the edge of a massive shift. The identities I had spent years tied to didn’t fit the person I was becoming anymore. That specific chapter of my life was ending, and letting go was painful, but staying put wasn’t an option. It was a “sink or soar” moment. The butterfly became a marker for that season: transformation born out of total disruption. I realized in those dark moments that my former self couldn’t come with me into the future. I had been dismantled. There was this internal urgency to redefine everything, even to the point where I didn’t want to answer to my old name anymore—spiritually or figuratively.

The Lesson a Butterfly Taught Me

I didn’t actually understand the biological grit of a butterfly’s life cycle until I was helping my son with a school lesson. It turns out that inside the chrysalis, the caterpillar doesn’t just grow wings. It dissolves. Its entire cellular structure breaks down into a near-liquid state before it reorganizes into a new form. It essentially has to disintegrate before it can rebuild. That hit me as incredibly symbolic.

I was talking to my significant other recently about this idea of transformation and even the concept of changing one’s name. It crystallized the fact that growth requires shedding. You have to be willing to relinquish outdated habits, environments, and even versions of yourself. If you don’t release those things, you aren’t really maturing. Fruit is the proof of growth; if nothing is changing, you’re just stagnant.

More Recognition in Reflection

I think about Saint Peter, who started as Simon. His new calling was marked by a name change that signaled stability and a new purpose. Then there’s Paul, formerly Saul, whose experience on the road to Damascus was so radical he couldn’t go back to who he was. His blindness was literal, but also symbolic—he couldn’t see the world the same way, so he couldn’t be the same person.

The Art of Evolving

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Human beings are designed for this kind of evolution. Life is a progression; death is when development stops. We shouldn’t be afraid to close chapters, shift our circles, or even rename ourselves. Dissolution isn’t a failure; it’s just part of the process. Trying to stay in an identity you’ve outgrown is like forcing growing bones into skin that won’t stretch—it’s just painful and distorting. Everything has to change eventually: the name, the frame, and the form. That’s the only way to actually emerge as who you’re supposed to be.
When Healing Means Letting the Moment Be Enough

February 9th, 2026

Recovery doesn’t happen overnight. It starts when you acknowledge your hurt—and accept that probing a fresh wound will only cause more pain. You must identify what inflicted the damage and stay alert to the triggers that could reopen it. Even as life moves on, concealed injuries take longer to mend than those left to breathe and receive care. This journey demands deliberate focus and patience.

Identifying the Battle

I cope with severe anxiety. It immobilizes me—my mind blanks out, and I instinctively withdraw into self-protection. Depression often shadows this state. Over time, and with guidance from those who’ve walked this path before me, I’ve come to see that both anxiety and depression spring from being unmoored from the present.

Facing Anxiety

Anxiety flares up when we try to address tomorrow’s challenges with today’s resources—an inherently impossible task. Though planning can be constructive, anxiety is born from exaggerated hopes or rigid expectations that life will follow a precise script. That’s the root of worry. We can’t command the weather or other people’s actions; our true power lies in our reactions and choices. Yet fixating on what lies ahead only breeds unease, and unease grows into anxiety.

Facing Depression

Depression, conversely, takes hold when we view the present through yesterday’s lens, convinced we’re powerless to change anything. Fixating on bygone choices only cultivates helplessness. While we can’t rewrite the past or fully shape the future today, we can transform our mindset in this moment—and that, in turn, shapes what comes next. Depression dwells in yesterday; anxiety, in tomorrow.

The Present of the Present

Staying present has been a challenging task. Zeroing in on now—on my portion of each moment—runs counter to a culture obsessed with future forecasts. Yet my path to recovery has shown me to breathe here and now, to fully inhabit this very moment, to center myself, to listen, and to be still. In these serene, grounded interludes, I discover my deepest peace.

I’ve come to release both the irretrievable past and the unsolvable future. My capacity for action exists only today; true experience unfolds only now. Dwelling on what was or what might be splinters the mind, pulling away presence and focus. I refuse to live like that any longer.

Journey Continues

Healing, for me, is a journey toward balance. It’s rooted in mindfulness—learning to sit with discomfort rather than succumb to it, to notice what tugs me backward or pulls me forward, and to measure those pulls against my inner strength in that moment. Am I perfect? Far from it. Recovery isn’t about mastery; it’s about the process.

This is a process I choose to keep walking—so I can cultivate deeper peace, purposeful contentment, and steadiness, rather than reacting and being at the mercy of every passing gust of wind.
The Pause Between Stimulus and Story: Where Your Power Reside

January 21st, 2026

How we respond to life is everything—and yet, response is often the hardest thing to govern.

By virtue of being human, we emote. We react to our environment largely through conditioning. We are taught, consciously and unconsciously, how to respond to what we see, hear, feel, taste, and touch. When those responses become ingrained—played on repeat until they no longer require conscious thought—they enter a state of automaticity. The script runs on its own. In many situations, the only true agency we retain is not over what happens to us, but over how we respond to it.

A Mother’s Reflection

As the mother of a young boy, I witness this process in real time. I see how the world presses against him, how easily feelings arise when things seem unfair or when desires go unmet. At times, the world feels less welcoming to him—and that, too, is normal. Our bodies register perceived pain through emotion, often sadness, though pain itself is subjective and deeply personal. Any stimulus that triggers that feeling elicits a response. For him, that response may show up as anger or tears, and at his age, that is entirely expected. He has not yet learned how to regulate those emotions or to recognize that there is a more constructive way to express them. That understanding must be taught.

Withstanding Emotional Weather

There have been moments when I’ve interrupted him in the midst of his emotional storm—not to suppress his feelings, but to help him navigate them. I tell him it is okay to feel angry, but not to express that anger in ways that harm himself or others. It is okay to cry, but not to allow those tears to pull him into a sorrow he cannot emerge from. I want him to understand that while we may not choose our feelings, we do choose how we respond to them.

Caught in My Own Downpour

What humbles me is that while I stand in a position of guidance, charged with helping him learn how to face life’s challenges, I am still learning myself. Even at my age, I sometimes struggle with responsiveness. I react when I should pause. I allow emotion to surge where reason should stand firm. And that, too, is part of the journey. Growth does not eliminate obstacles; it simply sharpens our ability to recognize them as they appear.

While reading a particularly poignant book entitled “Built to Lead: Forged by Purpose, Fueled by Faith,” one passage settled deeply within me:

That truth resonated profoundly.

Your Response is Your Signature

For anyone striving to become a better version of themselves, for anyone who looks at life and feels powerless—remember this: there will always be one thing within your control. Your response. Let that response reflect who you are, or, if you are still becoming, who you aspire to be.
Ignorance Is an IOU: Paying the Price of Unawareness”

January 14th, 2026

There is a saying that ignorance is bliss. It is one of the most deceptively comforting statements we repeat. There is, of course, a counterpoint: that an increase in knowledge brings an increase in sorrow. Perhaps that is where the first idea takes root—if knowing more brings pain, then knowing less must bring contentment. But I would argue the opposite. Not knowing something does not prevent the pain that often accompanies that lack of knowledge; it merely delays it.

Lesson Backed by Experience

A recent experience drove that truth home in a way that was impossible to ignore. While the details may not be particularly pleasant, transparency is sometimes necessary to bring understanding and build connection.

My older children wanted pets—specifically kittens. Our home already had a Maine Coon, so adding two more was not initially appealing to me. Still, as parents often do, I acquiesced. Our household became home to one adult cat and two kittens.

Having never cared for kittens in that capacity, I was content to leave the litter responsibilities to my children. As many can probably relate, that arrangement did not last long, and the task became a shared duty. While cleaning one of the designated litter areas, I remained unaware of a critical detail: there was a hidden tray beneath the box that held an absorbent pad, and it, too, required regular changing. I was ignorant of this simply because I did not know to look for it.

The Lesson at Hand

That ignorance did not shield me from its consequences. Physical symptoms—persistent headaches—began to signal that something was seriously wrong. When I finally discovered the source of the problem, the situation had escalated far beyond what it would have been with earlier awareness. The cleanup was significantly worse, far more unpleasant, and far more urgent. But it had to be done.

Ignorance Is an IOU with Interest

That experience taught me a lasting lesson. Ignorance is not protection from consequences. When you know better, you do better—but when you do not know, the consequences still arrive, often compounded. Proactivity matters. Asking questions matters. Research matters. Every choice we make carries outcomes, and those outcomes do not pause simply because we failed to understand them.