Theme: Recognizing the value of modesty and the danger of arrogance.
Quote:
"The mirrour, untainted by flattery, doth humble the proud by showing them not what they wish, but what they are." —Jean Puget de La Serre
Reflections on Truth
When I look in the mirror, I see echoes of all the versions of myself staring back. The younger me, the one who carried himself with certainty, who believed he had the answers to everything. The me who first felt the sting of rejection so deeply that he cut his fingers just to externalize the pain. The me who fell in love, full of hope, only to learn the hard truths of misalignment—that love unreturned, or worse, love untranslatable, is its own unique kind of heartbreak. And then there is the me now, standing in the present, the sum total of all those experiences, humbled by them and still trying to understand the weight of that humility.
I think if my younger self met me today, he would be confused. He hadn’t yet faced the years of solitude in his twenties. He hadn’t yet felt the devastation of a misaligned marriage. He didn’t know what it meant to love someone who couldn’t love him back in the way he needed, not because love wasn’t there, but because there was no shared language to bridge the gap. He hadn’t yet known the deep loneliness of being surrounded by people and still feeling utterly alone. He hadn’t yet felt the kind of pain that drives a person to dark places. He was arrogant—not out of malice, but because he had not yet been humbled by life. He didn’t know yet that certainty is often the mask of ignorance.
But if my younger self could listen long enough, he might begin to see something else. He might begin to understand that humility is not the erasure of self-worth but the refinement of it. It is not a punishment but a teacher, guiding me away from false certainties and toward deeper understanding. Over time, I think he would see that while I may not have the same confidence I once had, I have something more valuable: wisdom, resilience, and the ability to adapt.
When I look in the mirror, I see echoes of all the versions of myself staring back. The younger me, the one who carried himself with certainty, who believed he had the answers to everything. The me who first felt the sting of rejection so deeply that he cut his fingers just to externalize the pain. The me who fell in love, full of hope, only to learn the hard truths of misalignment—that love unreturned, or worse, love untranslatable, is its own unique kind of heartbreak. And then there is the me now, standing in the present, the sum total of all those experiences, humbled by them and still trying to understand the weight of that humility.
I think if my younger self met me today, he would be confused. He hadn’t yet faced the years of solitude in his twenties. He hadn’t yet felt the devastation of a misaligned marriage. He didn’t know what it meant to love someone who couldn’t love him back in the way he needed, not because love wasn’t there, but because there was no shared language to bridge the gap. He hadn’t yet known the deep loneliness of being surrounded by people and still feeling utterly alone. He hadn’t yet felt the kind of pain that drives a person to dark places. He was arrogant—not out of malice, but because he had not yet been humbled by life. He didn’t know yet that certainty is often the mask of ignorance.
But if my younger self could listen long enough, he might begin to see something else. He might begin to understand that humility is not the erasure of self-worth but the refinement of it. It is not a punishment but a teacher, guiding me away from false certainties and toward deeper understanding. Over time, I think he would see that while I may not have the same confidence I once had, I have something more valuable: wisdom, resilience, and the ability to adapt.
Reflections on Humility
Humility is a lesson that has been forced upon me, not one I sought out willingly. I have always had a bit of arrogance about me. It acts as a barrier between me and the outside world, a shell that keeps others from seeing the uncertainty within. But behind that arrogance lies a deep-seated doubt—that I will never measure up, that I will never be good enough, that I will always be less than. The arrogance of my youth has evolved into a mid-life reckoning for which I feel ill-equipped. I see this struggle manifest most clearly in two aspects of my life: my profession and my personal relationships.
Humility is a lesson that has been forced upon me, not one I sought out willingly. I have always had a bit of arrogance about me. It acts as a barrier between me and the outside world, a shell that keeps others from seeing the uncertainty within. But behind that arrogance lies a deep-seated doubt—that I will never measure up, that I will never be good enough, that I will always be less than. The arrogance of my youth has evolved into a mid-life reckoning for which I feel ill-equipped. I see this struggle manifest most clearly in two aspects of my life: my profession and my personal relationships.
Professional Humility
I have been passed over for advancement many times. I don’t fit the mold of an administrator. I tell myself it’s because I’m not a yes-man, but maybe that’s just my way of justifying why I’ve been told I’m not the right kind of leader. The repeated rejection has slowly eroded my ambition. I used to dream of leadership roles, but now I hesitate to even try. Failure has humbled me, but not in the way I would have hoped. Instead of pushing me to grow, it has made me retreat. It has left me questioning if I was ever cut out for more—or if I was foolish for believing I was. I have convinced myself that I am fine where I am, that I do not want more, but in quiet moments, I wonder if that is true or if it is merely the story I tell myself to dull the ache of rejection.
Yet, humility has also taught me to redefine success. I may not have climbed the ranks as I once hoped, but I have built something just as meaningful. I have found purpose in my students, in the lessons I teach, and in the relationships I cultivate. Leadership, I have come to realize, is not defined solely by titles or authority but by the ability to impact and inspire others. In that sense, I have succeeded in ways my younger self never imagined.
I have been passed over for advancement many times. I don’t fit the mold of an administrator. I tell myself it’s because I’m not a yes-man, but maybe that’s just my way of justifying why I’ve been told I’m not the right kind of leader. The repeated rejection has slowly eroded my ambition. I used to dream of leadership roles, but now I hesitate to even try. Failure has humbled me, but not in the way I would have hoped. Instead of pushing me to grow, it has made me retreat. It has left me questioning if I was ever cut out for more—or if I was foolish for believing I was. I have convinced myself that I am fine where I am, that I do not want more, but in quiet moments, I wonder if that is true or if it is merely the story I tell myself to dull the ache of rejection.
Yet, humility has also taught me to redefine success. I may not have climbed the ranks as I once hoped, but I have built something just as meaningful. I have found purpose in my students, in the lessons I teach, and in the relationships I cultivate. Leadership, I have come to realize, is not defined solely by titles or authority but by the ability to impact and inspire others. In that sense, I have succeeded in ways my younger self never imagined.
Personal Humility
Romantic rejection has been an even greater source of pain. In my life, I have had two ex-girlfriends and one ex-wife, but for most of my life, I have avoided relationships out of fear. Fear of rejection due to my weight. Fear that I am simply not enough. And when I have tried, the rejection has been almost unbearable. I never imagined, as a younger man, that I would walk this particular path—one where loneliness became a defining feature rather than a temporary season. The humility that comes from this is bitter. It is one thing to be humbled by learning, by gaining wisdom, by understanding your limitations. It is another thing entirely to be humbled by longing for connection and being met with silence.
Yet, humility has also shown me that I am not defined by my past failures or by the rejection of others. It has taught me how to sit with my emotions rather than be consumed by them. It has given me the tools to face my insecurities with honesty and grace. Most importantly, it has given me hope—that my past does not determine my future, and that growth is always possible.
All of this has shaped me, but it is difficult to express vulnerability in ways that extend beyond writing. My journal is my refuge. Here, I feel free in ways that I do not in other parts of my life. This resolution to look into the mirror and face myself is an act of rebellion, of desperation, of trying to peel away the hardened protective layer I have built over the years. But peeling away that layer is painful, and I am still unsure of what I will find beneath it. However, for the first time in a long while, I am willing to find out.
Romantic rejection has been an even greater source of pain. In my life, I have had two ex-girlfriends and one ex-wife, but for most of my life, I have avoided relationships out of fear. Fear of rejection due to my weight. Fear that I am simply not enough. And when I have tried, the rejection has been almost unbearable. I never imagined, as a younger man, that I would walk this particular path—one where loneliness became a defining feature rather than a temporary season. The humility that comes from this is bitter. It is one thing to be humbled by learning, by gaining wisdom, by understanding your limitations. It is another thing entirely to be humbled by longing for connection and being met with silence.
Yet, humility has also shown me that I am not defined by my past failures or by the rejection of others. It has taught me how to sit with my emotions rather than be consumed by them. It has given me the tools to face my insecurities with honesty and grace. Most importantly, it has given me hope—that my past does not determine my future, and that growth is always possible.
All of this has shaped me, but it is difficult to express vulnerability in ways that extend beyond writing. My journal is my refuge. Here, I feel free in ways that I do not in other parts of my life. This resolution to look into the mirror and face myself is an act of rebellion, of desperation, of trying to peel away the hardened protective layer I have built over the years. But peeling away that layer is painful, and I am still unsure of what I will find beneath it. However, for the first time in a long while, I am willing to find out.
A Yearlong Journey
Humility is not the absence of confidence. It is not self-deprecation. It is the recognition of reality—both the parts that flatter and the parts that wound. It is seeing yourself as you are, not as you wish to be. My journey through this year is not just about self-reflection; it is about learning to live with that reflection, to embrace it rather than resist it.
If I could speak to my past selves, I would say this: You never know as much as you think you know, and it is never as bad as you feel it is in the moment. Life continues, and you just go with it. Reflect and grow; regret and wither.
But more importantly, if I could speak to my future self, I would ask: Are you still learning? Are you still growing? Have you found peace with who you are? Because that, I think, is what humility is ultimately about—not just looking back with understanding, but looking forward with hope.
Humility is not the absence of confidence. It is not self-deprecation. It is the recognition of reality—both the parts that flatter and the parts that wound. It is seeing yourself as you are, not as you wish to be. My journey through this year is not just about self-reflection; it is about learning to live with that reflection, to embrace it rather than resist it.
If I could speak to my past selves, I would say this: You never know as much as you think you know, and it is never as bad as you feel it is in the moment. Life continues, and you just go with it. Reflect and grow; regret and wither.
But more importantly, if I could speak to my future self, I would ask: Are you still learning? Are you still growing? Have you found peace with who you are? Because that, I think, is what humility is ultimately about—not just looking back with understanding, but looking forward with hope.
Looking Ahead
So where do I go from here? How do I take this understanding of humility and apply it?
I think, for now, it is enough to continue looking into the mirror. To not turn away. To acknowledge the past versions of myself without letting them control me. Humility is about presence—about standing in the moment and accepting it for what it is. And that is what I intend to do.
When I stand before the mirror again next month, I will not ask myself, How have I proven myself? but rather, What have I learned?
That, I think, is the better question.
So where do I go from here? How do I take this understanding of humility and apply it?
I think, for now, it is enough to continue looking into the mirror. To not turn away. To acknowledge the past versions of myself without letting them control me. Humility is about presence—about standing in the moment and accepting it for what it is. And that is what I intend to do.
When I stand before the mirror again next month, I will not ask myself, How have I proven myself? but rather, What have I learned?
That, I think, is the better question.