This might sound strange, but I don’t have a list of people I look up to. No inspirational icons pinned to my mental bulletin board. No singular voice I turn to for advice. Not because I think I know everything—far from it—but because I don’t believe any one person is more important than another.
That’s not to say I haven’t been moved. I’ve cried over a well-placed sentence in a book. I’ve paused a podcast mid-episode just to breathe through a sudden, sharp truth. I’ve listened to voices online that stopped me in my tracks and made me reconsider everything. But I don’t elevate people. I listen to them.
See, I don’t admire people in the way the world often defines admiration—where someone is held above, followed, and emulated. I admire moments. I admire connection. I admire the stranger who shares a knowing glance in a checkout line, the kind of eye contact that says, “Yeah… this world is a lot, huh?” I admire the softness in a friend’s voice when they say, “Take your time,” and mean it.
I admire the way certain people show up, not because they’re trying to be admired, but because they’re being real—raw, grounded, messy, beautiful. I admire the people who leave space in conversations. Who laugh with their whole bodies. Who tell you the truth and trust you can hold it.
Maybe it’s easier to say: I don’t admire titles. I admire textures. The way a person holds their sorrow without letting it harden them. The way someone chooses presence over performance. The way small, everyday interactions ripple out into something bigger—something felt.
That’s the kind of guidance I seek. Not a guru. Not a blueprint. But a patchwork of encounters and relationships. A conversation here. A comment there. A shared silence. A familiar stranger. People who show me, even in fleeting moments, what it looks like to live without armor.
That’s who I look to. Not up to. But beside.
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