Some people are born with a fire.

And some of us are born with a flambé torch and a five-course menu, only to be handed a microwave and a can opener and told: “Make it work.”

Let me be clear:

I have ideas.

Big ones.

Rich ones. Seasoned. Marinated in ambition. Pan-seared in potential. Served medium-well with a side of don’t play with me.

But I keep finding myself in spaces where the standard is barely breathing.

Where mediocrity is treated like a mission statement.

Where “we’ve always done it this way” is gospel, and “thinking outside the box” is treated like a security threat.

They call it “realistic.”

I call it a slow and public death.

You ever walk into a meeting with ten solutions, and everyone else is still arguing about whether the problem really needs fixing?

You ever pitch gold to people who only know how to price aluminum?

You ever find yourself explaining excellence to people who would rather just coast and then clock out?

I’m not judging.

Okay, maybe I am.

But only because I’ve spent too many years wilting under fluorescent lights in rooms where potential goes to die on whiteboards that never get wiped clean.

The truth is:

I don’t belong here.

Not in a snobby way.

In a please stop dragging my brilliance through your low expectations kind of way.

I am dying on the vine.

Watered with empty praise.

Given just enough sunlight to stay—not to thrive.

Told I’m “impressive” by people who wouldn’t recognize greatness if it gave them a PowerPoint presentation and a personalized vision board.

They love to say:

“You’re such a star!”

But then lock the doors to the sky.

It’s not that I think I’m better than everyone.

It’s just—okay yes, sometimes I do.

Not because of ego, but because I know what it feels like to be underestimated by people who couldn’t do what I do if you spotted them the outline and gave them a running start.

I have range.

I have vision.

I have drafts of the future saved in my Notes app.

But when you dream in caviar and the people around you are shopping the clearance aisle of ambition, there’s only so long you can pretend Spam is a delicacy.

Still—

I show up.

Still—

I give more than I’m asked.

Still—

I write the emails that sound like TED Talks, sit through meetings that feel like hostage situations, and bite my tongue so often it’s basically an appetizer.

Because somewhere in me—despite the exhaustion, despite the closed doors and glazed eyes and five-point performance reviews—there’s still a hum.

A burn.

A whisper that says: keep going.

This is not a resignation letter.

This is not a farewell speech.

This is a memo to myself:

They don’t see it. That doesn’t mean it’s not real.

One day, I’ll find the room.

The runway.

The stage.

The blank canvas with no one standing behind me saying,

“Hmm, have you tried doing less?”

But for now, I’ll keep dreaming in caviar.

Even if I’m stuck with Spam.

Because taste isn’t taught and greatness doesn’t wait for permission.