I have come to a pretty significant realization in my life: I am, for the most part, a nobody.
Don't get me wrong. I am somebody. We all are. But I am not anyone particularly important in the grand scheme of things.
Over the course of my life, I have come across people who truly are somebodies. They are the kind of people who inspire others, accomplish remarkable things, and leave lasting impressions wherever they go. They are often admired, celebrated, and remembered.
I was never one of those people.
I wasn't unpopular, either. I simply existed somewhere in the middle. I had great friends throughout the years, though truth be told, I have often been a terrible friend. But that's a story for another time.
This story is about being a nobody.
There was a time when I desperately wanted to be a somebody. I believed it took something extraordinary to earn that title. Money. Power. Influence. Recognition. The ability to change the world in a visible way.
I have none of those things.
Sometimes I think about the people I've encountered throughout my life who were undeniably somebodies. People who achieved extraordinary things and left their mark on the world.
One of those people was Maya Angelou.
In 1997, I had the opportunity to hear her speak, and she was nothing short of extraordinary. Even though I was not an African American woman growing up in the South, her words still resonated deeply with me as a teenager growing up in the North. There was a universal truth in what she shared, something that reached beyond race, geography, or circumstance.
Thinking about that experience makes me want to revisit Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now. Perhaps it's time I read it again.
Maya Angelou rose above immense challenges and lived a life that continues to inspire generations. She possessed the kind of strength, wisdom, and grace that made people stop and listen. She was, without question, a somebody.
Then I think of one of my favorite artists, Pablo Picasso.
I have visited two museums dedicated to his work, one in Barcelona and another in Paris. He created masterpieces and developed a style I can only wish I could imitate. Through color, shapes, and abstraction, he represented things that most people preferred to see in black and white.
Picasso was extraordinary. He changed the art world and continues to inspire generations of artists. Yet by many accounts, he was not a particularly good person, especially in the way he treated women. That contrast has always fascinated me.
One of his quotes has become one of my core artistic values: "Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up." That idea speaks to something I try to hold onto, a commitment to creativity, curiosity, and seeing life in color even when the world encourages us to see it in black and white.
As I've gotten older, however, I've started to question what makes a person extraordinary. Is it talent? Success? Influence? Legacy?
Picasso was extraordinary, but many would not describe him as kind.
Maya Angelou was extraordinary, but what I remember most is not necessarily what she accomplished. It is how she made people feel. One of her most famous quotes was, "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."
The older I get, the more I believe that might be true.
When I was younger, I thought being a somebody meant accomplishing great things, creating a legacy, or changing the world. But maybe it is much simpler than that. Maybe being a somebody is not about what you create or achieve. Maybe it is about the way you treat people.
There seem to be two goals in life. One is to be an inspiration. The other is to be a decent human being.
The fortunate few manage to be both.
For most of my life, I focused on the first goal. I admired people who stood out, who left their mark, who achieved something extraordinary. But now I find myself valuing the second goal more.
I may never be famous. I may never create a masterpiece like Picasso or inspire millions like Maya Angelou. The truth is, I will probably remain a nobody. Most of us will.
And maybe that's okay.
Because when my life is over, I don't think the people who knew me will care about my accomplishments as much as they'll remember how I made them feel. Whether I was kind. Whether I listened. Whether I showed up when it mattered.
Maybe being remembered by the world is overrated.
Maybe being loved by a few people is enough.
And maybe being a decent human being is its own kind of greatness.
