I Could Play the Background

I could play the background.

In fact, I love playing the background.

I learned this about myself long before I had language for it.

In high school, I joined the exhibition team. At the time, this meant learning to twirl, turn, flip, and somehow catch an eleven-pound rifle with these slender little fingers of mine.

Absolutely not.

Luckily, the major in charge of the program recognized the same thing.

Instead, he offered me the spotlight.

Literally.

I ran spotlight for the performances, and boy, oh boy, did that bring me joy.

Nobody was looking at me. Nobody even knew I was up there.

But I was a major part of the production.

I had to know when. Where. How fast. How far.

And there was one particular moment in World, Hold On (Children of the Sky) when the beat dropped and the spotlight had to dance around the entire atrium.

That was me.

Controlled enough to be intentional. Free enough to feel alive.

I loved it.

I loved creating the atmosphere while being completely unseen.

Nobody watching the performance knew who was operating that spotlight.

But I knew I did a good-ass job.

And I think I’ve been doing some version of that ever since.

I love coaching someone up and then watching them go perform.

I love giving someone an idea and watching them make it real.

I love planting seeds.

I love watering.

I love creating something and passing it on.

I love offering my perspective, stepping out of the way, and watching someone else thrive with it.

I could play the background. And I play it very well.

I can stand front and center when I need to. I’m prepared for that too.

But I rarely need it.

And I think that distinction matters.

I am beautiful. I am well-spoken. I am smart. I am confident. Maybe those things make people assume I want to be seen all the time.

I don't.

Visibility does not fill me nearly as much as contribution does.

Give me the room where the idea is being formed.

Let me notice what isn't working.

Let me coach someone until they can see in themselves what I already saw.

Let me create the thing and hand it to someone who can carry it farther.

Hell, let me work remotely, send you the idea, and find out later that it worked beautifully.

That fills me up.

There is a particular kind of satisfaction in knowing that something is better because I touched it—even when nobody knows I touched it.

Maybe this is a kind of Quiet Wealth.

The ability to have impact without constantly expanding yourself.

To build without always being the building.

To shine without always standing in the light.

To pour into people without needing to control what they do with the full cup.

Because that part belongs to them.

I can give someone what I have to give. What they create from it is theirs.

And there are people who pour into me too.

My therapist. My good friends. My family. Coworkers. Even people I have coached who, when I need it, somehow redistribute pieces of what I once gave them right back to me.

The cup moves.

The water moves.

Nothing is lost.

I think owning this will allow me to become calmer.

More confident.

More humble.

More joyful.

Because I don't have to prove my impact by making sure everyone can see it.

I can fade into the background a little more.

And maybe, before I even realize it, people from all different walks of this world will be carrying little pieces of Nay with them.

An idea.

A question.

A word of encouragement.

A system that made something easier.

A little more confidence than they had before they met me.

A light I helped them recognize in themselves.

And they'll go do great things with it.

They'll be successful.

They'll be hopeful.

They'll pour some of it into somebody else.

And maybe nobody will know where the light originally came from.

I will.

I was running spotlight.

And that is enough.