Holding the Glass, Breaking the Ceiling: Redefining What’s Possible

Essay from Seth Godin

Dear Readers,

Hello and Happy Holidays.  I trust you’re eating well and hope you are able to take the time for a good long walk by yourself or with loved ones. The fall is the best time for that—nothing like crisp air!  During one such walk, I reflected on the past year and thought to share with you my thoughts on a topic I wrestle with from time to time. The topic: Humility.  

Humility. It’s one of those words that straddles a thin line—soft yet powerful, rooted in grace but often misinterpreted as surrender. It means being open to learning, admitting mistakes, respecting others’ perspectives. But in a world where your worth is so often measured before you even open your mouth, how do you balance humility with confidence, assertion—with unapologetic presence? 

I’ve wrestled with this duality for years. The urge to speak up versus the wisdom of “biting my tongue.” The need to assert my place versus the instinct to let actions speak louder than words. But some moments stick like thorns—not because they’re extraordinary, but because they’re so damn ordinary, so familiar. 

Recently, I attended a spectacular dinner—a beautifully curated evening filled with thoughtful conversation and exquisite food. The guests were elegant, worldly, connected. I was the only deeper-skinned attendee, though there was another POC who could “pass.”

As the aperitivo began, I found myself at the kitchen sink—a space I gravitate to when navigating new rooms. It’s my comfort zone. I can be useful, connected, but still grounded—half participant, half observer. 

And then it happened. A woman approached, handed me her glass—not with a smile or a casual “Would you mind?”—but with the quiet entitlement of expectation. Her glass was dirty, and at that moment, I wasn’t Nicole, the dinner guest. I was “the help.” 

The realization hit like a flicker of déjà vu, sharp but familiar. I took the glass, washed it, and offered her a refill—not from submission, but from something deeper: acknowledgment of the assumptions she carried without ever knowing my name. 

Now, before anyone reaches for the cancel button, do not get it twisted, service work is honest, it pays the bills and my father at one point was a custodian, and if you know me, you know how I feel about my father.  

Still, these micro-moments cut—not because I believe the assumptions, but because I’m weary of having to transcend them. Of being judged before I even get to define myself. I thought for a moment to reach for youtube or LinkedIn, and say, “see—me!” In another nanosecond, I took a deep breath.  

I searched the room for connection—for someone who saw what had just happened. My face felt flushed and that little heartbeat of mine felt like it could burst. But the conversation carried on, uninterrupted, as if nothing had occurred. And maybe, to them, nothing had. 

Then, from across the room, someone asked loudly, “Aren’t you an author, Nicole?” 

The air shifted. That question landed like a lifeline—not for validation, but for recognition. A disruption of the narrative forming in real time, one that I didn’t ask to be part of but have lived in all my life. 

But here’s where humility reclaims its power—not as meekness or silence, but as the ability to hold steady in a world that hasn’t caught up. To know you are enough without the need for explanation. 

Or not. 

What if it’s not enough? 

Idle confidence has never been enough.

If it were, I would’ve let moments like that pass, swallowed whole and forgotten. I would’ve stayed silent, waited to be seen, hoped someone else would rewrite the narrative for me. But that’s never been how I move through the world. 

What drives me—what has always driven me—isn’t the need to be recognized or understood by others. It’s a deeper commitment—to excellence, to representation, to building something that lasts. 

Because if I weren’t incensed by a desire to demand more for myself, I would have stayed on the safer path—the familiar, the expected—and never dared to take the road less traveled. 

What defines me is my work, my vision, and my unwavering belief in the power of picking ourselves off the bench, appointing ourselves to varsity status with pride, purpose, and authenticity. The story doesn’t end with someone handing me a glass. It’s just another chapter in a much larger narrative, and that story is still being written. On my our terms. With intention. With focus. With an unwavering belief in what’s possible.