Build, somewhere between gym membership and good intentions. Face, the kind you'd forget five minutes after a handshake. Athletic ability, good enough to play, not good enough to remember.
Intelligence, smart in some rooms, quiet in others. Talents, scattered, useful, seemingly unremarkable. By every measurable metric the world seems to worship, I am average in every way.
No tragic violin, no heroic spotlight, no destiny humming in my bloodstream. Just normal. And for a moment, that realization landed heavy.
Because we grow up believing we're supposed to be exceptional, chosen, gifted, different. But standing there in the honest mirror of adulthood, I wasn't different. I was common.
And strangely, that's when everything changed. Because once I accepted that I was average, I started reviewing my life again. Not through the lens of ego, but through the lens of evidence.
I survived a childhood that statistics said should have broke people. I built stability where chaos used to live. I learned emotional language without anyone teaching me the alphabet.
I showed up for friends when I was exhausted. I worked jobs that drained me while still chasing purpose afterwards. I forgave people that never apologized.
I kept going when quitting would have been easier and completely justified. And it hit me. I've been doing extraordinary things my entire life.
I just called them normal. Resilience, I called it getting by. Emotional growth, I called it figuring shit out.
Perseverance, I called it, what else was I supposed to do? Kindness, I called it basic decency. Courage, I called it Tuesday. Maybe the most extraordinary people aren't the ones who stand above the crowd.
Maybe they're the ones standing inside it, carrying invisible weight without applause. Maybe greatness isn't fireworks. Maybe it's repetition, consistency.
