Inspiraelevation

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.

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

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.