Lachlan Brown
I used to think humility was about thinking less of yourself. That it meant stepping back, being quiet, being smaller. Maybe that’s what we’re taught, implicitly—through modesty culture, through religious aphorisms, through the cultural myth that “the good ones don’t talk too much.”
But it’s not that. Or it doesn’t have to be. Humility, I’ve come to believe, isn’t thinking less of yourself. It’s thinking about yourself less.
That shift changes everything. Because when you stop anchoring the world to your own ego, your own projections, your own cravings and insecurities—you start to see clearly. And clarity is a kind of mercy.
In Buddhist psychology, there’s a concept called anattā, or “non-self.” It’s not about denying your existence, but about understanding that the thing you call “you”—your personality, your preferences, even your memories—isn’t a solid, fixed entity. It’s a process. A flow. A pattern of attachments and aversions coalescing into a temporary identity.
The more tightly you cling to that identity, the more you suffer. Because the world doesn’t revolve around your story, no matter how well-crafted it is.
And yet, we live in a culture obsessed with self-definition. “Find your voice.” “Speak your truth.” “Curate your personal brand.” There’s a quiet desperation in all of it—a need to be seen, validated, and distinct in a digital ocean of sameness. The irony is, the more we center ourselves, the more alienated we feel. We make gods of our opinions and then wonder why everyone seems so angry, so defensive, so lonely.
Humility, in contrast, is spacious. It lets you breathe beyond your ego. It says: I don’t need to dominate this moment. I don’t need to win this argument. I don’t need to post about this experience for it to matter. There is freedom in that—a radical kind of freedom.
But here’s the catch: humility can look a lot like powerlessness in a world that only respects confidence. Or, more accurately, the illusion of confidence. We conflate loudness with leadership, certainty with competence. And in doing so, we miss the quiet leaders—the ones who don’t need the spotlight because they’re busy tending to what actually matters. The ones who speak only when it adds something. The ones who know the difference between silence and absence.
I think a lot about the difference between humility and humiliation. One is chosen. The other is imposed. One comes from strength, the other from shame. And yet, they look so similar from the outside that people often confuse the two. So they avoid humility out of fear of appearing weak. But true humility is not weakness—it’s the opposite. It takes immense inner strength to not make everything about you.
Chögyam Trungpa once said, “The bad news is you’re falling through the air, nothing to hang on to, no parachute. The good news is, there’s no ground.” That line didn’t strike me as profound at first—just strange. But over time, it settled into me like a quiet bell. Because that’s exactly what the ego can’t tolerate: freefall. No control, no certainty, no firm ground to plant your flag of righteousness. So it scrambles. It clings to arguments, positions, narratives. It insists on being heard, being right, being seen. The ego loves to RSVP to conflict. Loves to defend, to correct, to posture.
But the humble part of you—if you let it speak—knows better. It doesn’t need the ground. It doesn’t need to win. It knows the cost of constant reaction. It knows that being right is often less important than being kind. Or quiet. Or curious.
That’s the paradox: when you stop trying to land, you start to float.
In Buddhism, the beginner’s mind—shoshin—is considered a virtue. Not because it’s naïve, but because it’s open. It doesn’t assume. It doesn’t grasp. It lets the world reveal itself without forcing a frame around it. That openness is a form of humility. And it’s also the path to wisdom.
But the modern world doesn’t make space for beginners. It rewards hot takes, not thoughtful pauses. It incentivizes identity over inquiry. You’re either a brand or a nobody. You’re either confident or irrelevant. And so we posture. We perform. We pretend. Not because we want to deceive, but because we’re afraid of being overlooked.
And in that fear, humility becomes a casualty. Because it’s hard to be humble when you think your worth depends on visibility. When the algorithm favors outrage over nuance, certainty over doubt. When everyone is shouting and no one is listening.
But here’s the thing: you can opt out. You can choose to listen more than you speak. You can let others shine without dimming your own light. You can ask, “What if I’m wrong?” not as a confession, but as an invitation. That’s what humility does—it creates room for truth to emerge without forcing it.
I’ve seen it in meditation, too. The moment you think you’re “doing it right” is often the moment you’re the farthest from presence. Because now you’re clinging to an idea of yourself as “a good meditator.” But humility lets the moment be what it is. Boring. Restless. Sublime. Humility says: you don’t have to fix this—just be here with it.
That presence is its own kind of power. Not the kind that dominates, but the kind that endures. The kind that holds space without collapsing into it. The kind that lets others feel safe in your silence.
And maybe that’s what we’re really after. Not domination. Not approval. But connection. Safety. Belonging. And the paradox is, we find those things not by asserting our identities, but by loosening our grip on them. By softening. By yielding. By getting curious about the spaces between us.
There’s a line from Buddha that says, “Greater in battle than the man who would conquer a thousand-thousand men is he who would conquer just one—himself.” That’s humility. The quiet mastery of self that doesn’t need to be witnessed to be real. The strength to know who you are without announcing it.
I don’t have a tidy ending for this. No steps to follow. No insight to wrap it all up. Just a question I keep returning to when I notice my ego flaring up, trying to prove something:
What would humility do right now?
Not what would make me look good. Not what would make me win. But what would humility do?
And often, the answer is nothing.
Just breathe. Just listen.
Just let go.
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