To be bathed in heavenly light once upon a time. Perfect features danced around by a golden radiance, celestial warmth emanating from every crevice of his being, wings blessed by the lips of the divine—the Morning Star who shone at the right hand of God.
But pride swelled beyond his chest and could not be caged by the pearly gates, and so the first strike of war reverberated through the heavens as seraphim clashed against seraphim. The sky, once a painting of harmony, turned acrid with the stench of fiery wrath. He had wanted to reach so high beyond his station that a chaotic waltz split the firmament.
Yet, for all his might, the decree was spoken. A hand wrenched apart the heavens. A maw of endless void yawned under him. The stars spun into one as he descended as the brightest of them all, the wind screaming past his ears to taunt him of his loss. As he plummeted, his name became synonymous with hubris, his story a cautionary tale whispered into the ears of dreamers who dared to think and speak too highly of themselves.
Heaven could not hold his pride, nor could the earth soften his fall. His body trembled with its first taste of pain, marking the soil of his new kingdom. Then, he lifted his head, and his eyes seethed with something stronger than pain—desire. Here was a fallen angel no longer bound by heaven’s will, no longer a servant to any but himself.
He pushed himself off the dirt, wings shuddering in the stale air. He turned his gaze upward to the throne that had forsaken him. A slow, knowing smile curved upon Lucifer’s face.
To be an angel is to serve the purpose you were born into. To be a fallen angel? Well, that means you once had ambition.
Far removed from celestial battlegrounds and cast-out angels, a young actor stood before a decked-out crowd and spoke into a microphone what many would only think in solitude. Timothée Chalamet, eyes gleaming with reverence, accepted his Screen Actors Guild award with a speech that was less of a thank-you and more of a declaration.
“I know the classiest thing would be to downplay the effort that went into this role and how much this means to me… but the truth is, I’m really in pursuit of greatness. I know people don’t usually talk like that, but I want to be one of the greats, I’m inspired by the greats…” he admitted.
And he was right—people don’t usually talk like that. Those who heard his speech are either in support of his bold statement or belong to the “that should’ve stayed in the notes app, Timmy” camp. The latter group questioned where he siphoned the audacity from to make such proclamations and had their claws out, ready to maim. But why shouldn’t Chalamet be allowed to say that? Why shouldn’t we all?
It has become the norm for us to work hard in silence, to endure behind closed doors, to let our accomplishments speak for themselves. Humility is championed as a virtue, while ambition is something you should only speak of when asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” in elementary school. The fault within this practice is that we have collectively decided that humility and silence are synonymous, as though acknowledging our own ambition is a moral failing—or, even, a sin. While we are taught to desire greatness, we are taught to do so quietly and gently lest it transpire into arrogance. What if being loud about the trying process isn’t arrogance—it’s necessary?
I recently rose to a new position at work—a milestone that I had included in my 2025 goals without taking it too seriously. I hadn’t anticipated it’d be the first thing I crossed off two months into the new year. It was an arduous process, but I vied for the role with every bone in my body; something within me knew I could be great at the job. So, I sat in a fluorescently lit room explaining why I’d be the perfect candidate to fill the vacancy: Because if I were tasked to dip Achilles in the river Styx, I would have done it twice and alternated the heel I held him by. I explained not only the projects I have succeeded at so far, but the things I would try my hand at should I be granted the elevated title. I saw no benefit in being humble about trying, in being humble about wanting to be great, in being humble about the ambition and vision I saw for myself.
Perhaps we are afraid of looking foolish; saying you want to be great rolls out the red carpet for scrutiny—it creates a bar that you now have to clear or risk being remembered for your failure. There is no doubt that it is safer to polish in the shadows, to reveal your trophies and medals only when they are shining and flawlessly blinding. But isn’t that a little… dishonest? No one would ever buy into a story of an individual who is only ever successful. Failure is everyone’s birthright; so why be afraid of it? Isn’t there something courageous about proclaiming, “This is where I am, and this is where I’m trying to go”?
History does not favor the quietly ambitious; those who want to be remembered do not murmur their intentions under their breath or wish upon an eyelash. Muhammad Ali did not cross his fingers hoping for a win, he told the world he was the greatest long before he ever was. Serena Williams proudly made known her intentions to dominate tennis. You might find their confidence grating, annoying, even—like nails on a chalkboard—but you cannot question their results.
Maybe it’s about speaking it into existence. Maybe saying it out loud serves no other purpose than to convince yourself that it is doable. Maybe you are setting the bar for your future self while having others hold you accountable. I see more benefits for someone to proclaim that they are in pursuit of greatness than reasons for us to criticize them for their claims. When Chalamet said he wants to be one of the greats, he was putting weight behind his efforts. He’s no longer working for some nebulous hope of success, he is putting himself on the track towards the vision he had dared to articulate.
But there’s another matter: Even when we do step onto the podium and embrace greatness, we are told to embrace with humility.
I recall every event I have ever led in great capacity and remember, after the applause, when I would attribute the success to my team and their hard work, downplaying my part as much as I can, as if my name wasn’t on the masthead. In retrospect, I don’t understand why I did that. Even when the ovation was directed at me, I felt an inexplicable urge to behave undeserving of it all, to say it was all luck and circumstance.
No point disproving the importance of gratitude, but why does humility translate into some kind of erasure? Why is it considered more noble to disappear into the background rather than own our achievements? Why did I feel the need to shrink for the comfort of others? There is a difference between arrogance and self-recognition; the former demands validation at the expense of others, while the latter is an acknowledgment of effort and perseverance. I, and all of us, should be able to say, “I worked for this, and I deserve it,” without backing away from the spotlight.
The next time you feel tempted to shrink, to keep your process in the dark until the grand reveal, ask yourself: Who benefits from your silence? Because it certainly isn’t you. Nor is it the person who might be inspired by your tenacity. The process deserves recognition. The success deserves recognition. And so do we.
Indulge me in another anecdote: I was sitting in my mother’s car some months after a breakup, ranting to her that anyone would be lucky to have me, really. Maybe I was exaggerating the tiniest bit, but I meant the sentiment with all my heart. I’m creative, hardworking, independent, clean, familiar with the arts, experimental, and so on. She looked at me with disbelief, as if I had just cursed in her face for the very first time, and said, “You really think a lot of yourself, huh?” I stared back blankly with a tinge of confusion and said, “When you and dad have raised me and given me every opportunity to become the person I am today, how can I not be proud? When I know that I have put in every ounce of sweat and hour of work to get to where I am today, how can I possibly think less of myself? How can I ever justify putting humility in the driver’s seat to success when I’ve had to push the car up an impossible hill through weathers of all kinds?”
It’s only human to be terrified of the Lucifer parallel. If we speak too boldly, aim too high, we worry we’ll fall. But what we often forget is that Lucifer fell not because he aspired, but because he believed himself already equal to God. His flaw was not ambition—it was delusion. Chalamet did not stand on that stage and claim to be Daniel Day-Lewis; he said he was inspired by him and wanted to reach his level. That’s the difference. Greatness does not punish those who reach for it; it punishes those who believe they are already there.
So, I’ll take every congratulations and sew them into wings, thank you very much. That way, even if I were to be cast out of the clouds one day, I’ll fall back on my triumphs.
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