Big Girl Panties Diaries — Entry #79: The Quiet Power of Humility
Humility doesn’t get much airtime these days. We celebrate confidence, boldness, the ability to “own the room.” But somewhere between the loud achievers and the silent wallflowers lives a quiet strength we rarely talk about: humility.
Humility isn’t thinking less of yourself—it’s thinking of yourself less. It’s the ability to step back, listen, and recognize that you’re not always the smartest person at the table (even if you secretly wish you were). It’s trading “look at me” for “tell me more.”
The irony? The people I respect the most don’t need to tell you how great they are. You just know. They give credit freely. They admit when they’re wrong. They ask for help without flinching. And because they don’t hoard the spotlight, people actually want to hand it to them.
I’ve learned humility the hard way. Life has a funny way of knocking the ego out of you when you start believing your own hype. A kid’s diagnosis, a career detour, or even just the wrong words at the wrong time will remind you fast: none of us are immune from being human.
And if you’ve ever been to a yoga class, you know: it’s basically 60 minutes of humility training. Just when you think you’ve mastered one pose, the instructor drops a new one that makes your legs shake like Jell-O and your pride crack wide open. Nothing like falling out of tree pose to remind you—grace looks better with a side of humility. (See also: Tapas Isn’t Just for Dinner, where I discovered struggle is the point, not the failure.)
And speaking of yoga, it’s not the first time the mat has taken me down a peg. In Can You Touch Your Toes? Now Try Touching Your Ego, I admitted that nothing exposes your pride faster than realizing flexibility has less to do with your hamstrings and more to do with your mindset.
Here’s the truth:
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Ego says: I need to win.
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Humility says: We need to succeed.
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Ego hoards credit.
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Humility hands it out like confetti.
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Ego demands the mic.
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Humility pulls up a chair and says, Tell me more.
But humility isn’t reserved for the mat. Nothing will humble you faster than sitting across from yet another specialist, watching your kid explain her symptoms for the 41st time. You realize you can’t fix it, can’t fast-track the answers, can’t even carry the weight for her. Humility is knowing you’d trade places in a second, but instead you show up—again and again—hoping your presence is enough. (See: She Got the License—And I Got a Masterclass in Resilience, where Hailey reminded me that grit and grace often come wrapped in humility.)
And then there’s Anna. She negotiates her allowance better than some CEOs negotiate contracts. She trains the dog better than I can get my laptop to behave. And she’s only twelve. Humility, I’ve learned, sometimes looks like admitting your kid is already smarter, sharper, and more fearless than you were at twice her age. (See: The Sister Who Holds Us Together, where Anna’s quiet leadership kept us afloat when the rest of us were falling apart.)
Humility doesn’t make you small. In fact, it makes you magnetic. People lean toward someone who doesn’t need to win every conversation. They trust the leader who says, “I don’t have all the answers, but I’m willing to figure it out with you.” They admire the person who can succeed loudly but serve quietly.
Humility, I’ve realized, isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom dressed in plain clothes.
Big Girl Panties Rule: Confidence may get you noticed, but humility will make you unforgettable.