Being teachable simply means staying open to learning, to correction, and to perspectives different from our own. It is not about how much we know, how old we are, or how much experience we have accumulated. It is about posture. It is the willingness to admit that none of us has arrived and that there is always more to learn.
Browsing: Ain’t That A VHIT
At 46 years old, I’ve lived long enough to know that silence is rarely accidental. It’s often a choice, one shaped by comfort, fear, exhaustion, or the belief that what’s happening doesn’t quite touch our front door yet. I’ve also learned this: silence has a sound. You may not hear it immediately, but over time it echoes, carrying consequences far beyond the moment we chose not to speak.
A window allows me to look outward at people, circumstances, systems, and situations. A mirror invites me to look inward at my tone, my posture, my motives, my habits, and my heart. Both are necessary. But wisdom, I am discovering, begins with knowing which one I am standing in front of.
America is often introduced to us through poetry and song: amber waves of grain, purple mountain majesties, a nation crowned with brotherhood from sea to shining sea. It is a beautiful image. Yet for many whose history has been shaped by struggle and survival, a quiet question remains: beautiful for whom?
There comes a quiet moment in life when you begin to understand something important: not every comment needs a response, not every opinion deserves your attention, and not every voice should carry weight in your spirit. Some shade simply isn’t worth standing under, especially when it comes from a tree that bears no fruit.
When I think about what truly shaped me, I don’t start with accomplishments or milestones. I start with covering. I start with my grandmothers, my aunts, my godmother, my mother, and the many women who loved me as if I were their own. They carried more than responsibility, they carried me. And whether I realized it at the time or not, their strength was rooted in faith and reinforced by the Black church.
That conversation surfaced a truth many people have lived with but struggle to name: growth requires learning how to close the door behind you and walk through the door in front of you. Closing the door does not mean forgetting what happened. It means choosing not to carry it with you. For some, this looks like leaving a workplace where your contributions were consistently overlooked. For others, it may be stepping away from a role you outgrew but stayed in out of loyalty or fear. And sometimes, it means releasing the version of yourself that responded out of frustration instead of clarity. Some of what we carry happened to us. Some happened by us. Both deserve reflection. Neither should define us.
The cup represents our personal season. Each of us is carrying something different. For some, it is a season of growth and gratitude. For others, it is a season of waiting, healing, rebuilding, or simply surviving. Many people today are not praying for overflow; they are praying the cup does not break. They are asking God for strength to endure, clarity to move forward, and peace to make it through another day.
For much of my journey, I leaned heavily into doing. I often felt a strong sense of urgency, sometimes necessary, sometimes self-imposed. I have tried to build bridges with urgency. Not recklessly, but with a genuine desire to help close gaps and remove obstacles. When I noticed barriers, I felt compelled to respond quickly. At the time, it felt like responsibility. In reflection, I now see it was also a belief that my involvement was always required.
That’s why fighting the good fight feels personal to me. The Apostle Paul’s words, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith”, aren’t about perfection. They’re about endurance. About staying in the fight even when you’re tired, bruised, and unsure how the next round will go.