The Tyranny of the Amazing

I keep thinking about this. The way “amazing” can crush you.

I see these heroes — the ones waiting minute to minute for their loved ones to be freed from captivity, those risking their lives to protect us, the ones who are so brave and loud and clear — and I freeze. Like, forget it, I’ll never be that, so why bother.

And then I try to calm myself down with the usual lines: I show up at a protest once in a while. I heal families. I sit with people in their hardest moments. That counts.

But does it? Or is that just me trying to soothe the discomfort?

Because underneath all of it is the truth I don’t want to say: I don’t measure up. I want to do more. I’m not doing more. And that hurts.

It actually hurts in my body — like a tightness in my chest, like wanting to run away from myself. I want to push it down. Say something clever. Rationalize. But what if I didn’t?

What if I just sat in it? No answer. No spin. Just: yeah, I don’t measure up. And yeah, I want to.

It’s so uncomfortable. But maybe that discomfort is the point. Maybe it’s the only thing real enough to move me.

I don’t have to be amazing. I don’t have to suddenly become the hero. But I can live with this longing, this ache. I can let it stretch me.

Maybe that’s how you break the tyranny of the amazing — not by pretending you’re already enough, not by shutting down, but by letting the gap stay open. By letting it call you forward.