Dear Ambition

Dear Ambition,

I owe you an apology.

I know. It’s been a while.

There was a time you and I went everywhere together.

Stages.
Peagents.
Radio shows.
Blogs and Brands.

If there was a door, you convinced me to knock.

And if nobody answered,
you’d whisper, “Build your own”.

God would place something in my hands and I would run with it.

Back then, I didn’t know blessings could make people uncomfortable.

I didn’t know a gift could cost you a friendship.

I didn’t know shining
could make somebody else feel like
their light had gotten dimmer.

So when people left, I let them.

I told myself they just weren’t meant to be part of my final story.

And you? You kept me moving.

Until that loss came closer.

This time, it wasn’t a friend.
It was family.

And somehow,
even a gift from my father
after he was already gone
became something worth fighting over.

That one broke me.

Because how do you grieve a father
and a family member
at the same time?

Had me talking directly to Grief
when I couldn’t reach mine.

How do you receive something
from someone who can no longer hold you while losing someone who still can?

That’s when I started looking at you differently.

Ambition,

you started feeling expensive.

Every time I reached for something,
I wondered who I would lose next.

So I learned to make myself smaller.

I stopped announcing things.

Stopped creating things.

Stopped joining things.

I left projects unfinished.

Walked away from ministries.

Put distance between friendships.

And whenever God handed me another gift,

I’d admire it quietly…and put it back in the box.

Because somebody, somewhere,
might be offended by what I could do with it.

And I was tired of fighting.

Do you hear me? TIRED.

I didn’t want another crown.

Another opportunity.

Another room.

Another reason for somebody I loved
to decide that my blessing
was somehow their burden.

So I chose peace.

Or at least…what I thought was peace.

Because being alone was peaceful.

Nobody could compete with me
if nobody was around.

Nobody could misunderstand my intentions.

Nobody could accuse me of thinking I was better.

Nobody could leave
because there was nobody left
to leave.

And for a while,

that felt like freedom.

But Ambition…

I think I owe you an apology.

Because somewhere along the way,
I confused peace with absence.

I thought making my world smaller
would make it safer.

And it did. But it also made me smaller.

And lately, I’ve been hearing you again.

Not loudly.

You know better than that now. You knock softly.

When I write something and feel that old spark.

When an idea keeps me awake.

When I create something
and catch myself smiling
before remembering
I’m supposed to be afraid of what people might think.

There you are.
Still waiting.
After all these years.

You never asked me to fight anybody.

You never asked me to prove anything.

You never asked me to be better
than anyone else.

You only asked me
to use what God gave me.

So…

Dear Ambition,

I’m sorry I blamed you
for the people I lost.

I’m sorry I buried you
to keep people who were willing
to lose me anyway.

I’m sorry I treated my gifts
like weapons just because somebody else felt wounded by them.

I don’t want the fight anymore.

I still don’t.
But I don’t want to disappear either.

So maybe this time
you and I can do things differently.

No proving.
No competing.
No begging anyone to understand.

No making myself smaller so somebody else can feel bigger.

Just me.
God.
The gifts He gave me.

And whatever comes next.

Dear Ambition,
you can come out now.
I think we’re safe here.