And I thought I was different from my cousins!
I didn’t dress pretty or pose in golden light. I didn’t bite, scratch, or punch the wind. I didn’t sing, couldn’t dance to save my life. I wasn’t smug—never pretended I’d conquered the world just because I was scattered but called myself whole. And I didn’t cloak my blues with earnest self-righteousness, convincing myself that this me—this avatar!—might save the world.
I wore a suit. I spoke in bullet points. I was the paragon of professionalism, above the frivolities of my cousins. Once.
Now? In the cold of 2025, I tremble with humility even more—humility crafted on my chest in crisp sans serif.
I tremble when I see them: the preeners, the performers, the plodders—shouting, whispering, stumbling onto the stage—haunted by the restless ghosts of self-promotion. I’ve carried their posts a thousand times, dressed in empty words, all with the same cues.
Take the preeners. They wrap their triumphs in the guise of ‘modesty’. I am humbled, one types. Delighted, another. Honoured. Humbled? By what? A promotion? The new job? If humility were the goal, why do I overflow with tags? No, this isn’t humility—it’s theatre.
But ‘modesty’ isn’t enough for everyone. Some crave a story—a tale of rejection, redemption, and triumph. Enter the performers. Their posts are Netflix series, complete with cliffhangers and crafted climaxes. Ten years ago, I was rejected. Now, they want me as a keynote speaker, they write, a comeback so dramatic you can almost hear the swelling orchestral score. Or: It has been a journey, they reflect after a two-hour workshop, as if they’re Phileas Fogg returning home with Aouda on his arm. And the pièce de résistance: As so many of you have asked me… Nobody asked. Nobody ever does. Still, they type, their wisdom spilling forth like on a TED stage.
The performers summon their entire universe—bosses, colleagues, even the acquaintance who nodded at them in 2016. Thank you to my incredible team, they write. And the hashtags? They sprout faster than thought leader bios. The crowd obliges with predictable praise: So inspiring! What a legend!
And the performers? They bask, heads tilted just enough to feign surprise.
Then, we have the plodders. They know they should be here but aren’t quite sure why. They’re the extras, wandering in from the wings, unsure if the spotlight is meant for them. Completed a project today, they write. Attended a workshop on leadership. Excited to kick off 2025 as Chief Visionary Officer for Purpose-Driven Synergy at igotanewjob.com. Their posts shuffle into a world crowded with dramatists, awkward and unpolished but somehow endearing in their sincerity.
I carry them all—the preeners, the performers, the plodders—each bringing their triumphs and struggles, polished or plain. I thought I was different. How could I be? Scratch the surface, and society is the same—an endless parade of preening peacocks, strutting, squawking, desperate for applause.
No, I am just like my cousins. A mirror can’t change its reflection, however polished its surface; a stage can’t choose its play.
I am humbled. Truly, I am.
This article first appeared in Open Magazine online on 15 Jan 2025. The cover image was produced with MidJourney.
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