Author Archives: Johnbritto Kurusumuthu

I Nominate the People

Why the Galaxy Needs No Emperor at All

WordPress Daily Writing Prompt  ·  28 June 2026  ·  Rise & Inspire

The summons came on every screen in the galaxy at once. Emperor Palpatine, who had ruled by fear for a generation, announced — to the astonishment of a thousand worlds — that the throne itself would be decided by an open election. His nominee was Darth Vader. And then, with a thin smile, he offered the galaxy a courtesy: you may put forward one challenger.

One.

Trillions of beings were handed a ballot and told the whole future would turn on a single name. Choose well, the Emperor seemed to say. Choose your master wisely.

I have thought about it carefully. And I will not nominate a person.

I nominate the People.

The Trap Hidden in the Question

Understand what is being asked. We are invited to pick which strong hand will hold the leash — as though the only question worth debating is who rules, never whether anyone should rule us at all. That is the oldest trick in the galaxy: to offer a choice so narrow that, simply by choosing, you agree to the cage.

A benevolent Emperor is still an Emperor. A throne built for a saint will, in time, seat a tyrant — because thrones outlive the people who first sit on them, and absolute power is a habit the galaxy never quite breaks. The problem was never which face wore the crown. The problem was the crown.

Order Through Dignity, Not Dominance

So here is my nominee, and here is why.

No single mind, however brilliant, can hold the hopes of a trillion lives without crushing most of them. The farmer on the outer rim, the teacher, the engineer, the mother walking her child to school on a forgotten moon — none of them appear on an Emperor’s map. They are too small to be seen from a throne. But they are not too small to govern themselves.

The People are not a candidate waiting to be ruled. They are the rightful authors of their own future. Power that is shared cannot be seized in a single stroke. Authority that flows upward from many hands can be recalled when it is abused; authority that descends from one hand can only be endured. The patient, unglamorous work of self-government — councils and votes and accountable institutions, the slow building of trust — has never been as thrilling as a hero with a lightsaber. But it is the only arrangement under which ordinary people are safe.

Vader offers order through dominance. I offer something harder and far better: order through dignity. Not the peace of the obedient — the peace of the free.

Where the Story Stops Being a Story

And here is where the galaxy far, far away stops being fiction.

You and I are handed false choices every day. Two options, pre-approved, presented as though they were the whole of reality — and the quiet assumption beneath every one of them is that we are meant to be ruled: by fear, by circumstance, by the loudest voice in the room. We are told to pick our master and be grateful for the vote.

But there is always a third answer the powerful would rather you not notice — that you were never meant to be ruled by these things at all.

Scripture does not crown the strong; it dignifies the small. It tells the shepherd boy he can face the giant, tells the fishermen they can change the world, tells the overlooked of every age that they carry an unrepeatable worth no throne can grant and no tyrant can take away. The whole arc of faith bends away from domination and toward dignity — away from the one who would rule, and toward the many who were made, every single one, in the image of God.

My Nomination

So no — I will not name a challenger to sit on the same dark throne.

I nominate the conscience of the ordinary person. I nominate the farmer and the teacher and the mother on the forgotten moon. I nominate the radical, ancient, stubborn idea that a free people, accountable to one another, need no Emperor at all.

The galaxy was never asking us to choose a ruler.

It was waiting to see whether we would finally refuse the question.

Written in response to the WordPress Daily Writing Prompt — 28 June 2026

Johnbritto Kurusumuthu

Founder 

RISE & INSPIRE

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© 2026 Rise & Inspire.

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Word Count:777

Somewhere in your head is a small museum of nonsense you carried as a child and held with total confidence. The moon liked you. Gum lasted seven years. Let’s take a tour of the exhibits.

This post invites readers to:

• Laugh at their childhood misconceptions.
• Reflect on their present assumptions.
• Remain teachable throughout life.

Things I Used to Believe as a Kid

(That Are Frankly Embarrassing Now)

Childhood is the only period of life where you can hold a completely deranged theory about how the world works and nobody asks you for evidence. You just know things. The moon is following the car. The bathroom drain wants you. Adults are in full command of their lives. You believe all of it with the serene confidence of someone who has never once been wrong, because at that age, who could prove otherwise?

Then you grow up, the spell breaks one belief at a time, and you are left holding a small museum of nonsense. Here are a few exhibits from mine — most of which, I suspect, are sitting in your collection too.

1. The moon was personally following me

Every car journey at night, the moon kept pace with us. Other cars fell behind. Houses slid past. But that moon? Loyal. Devoted. Clearly it had chosen me and was seeing me safely home. It never occurred to me that something 384,000 kilometres away might appear stationary to literally everyone, simultaneously, including the kid in the car going the opposite direction who also thought it was his.

2. Swallowed chewing gum stayed in my stomach for seven years

This was delivered with such authority by older children that I treated every accidental swallow as the start of a seven-year sentence. I genuinely kept a mental ledger. I assumed that somewhere inside me was an ever-growing, slowly compacting brick of gum, like a landfill with a heartbeat. Nobody explained digestion. Why would they? The myth was far more fun.

3. Adults knew exactly what they were doing

This is the big one. The foundational delusion. I believed that somewhere around a certain birthday, a switch flipped and you simply understood things — taxes, small talk, how much rice to cook, what the noise in the car meant. I have now comfortably passed every age I once considered impossibly wise, and I can report that the switch does not exist. We are all improvising. The adults were improvising too. They were just better at the face.

4. If I couldn’t see you, you couldn’t see me

A classic of the genre. Hands over eyes, and I had achieved total invisibility. Hide-and-seek strategy consisted of standing in the middle of the room with my face covered, deeply confident I had outwitted everyone. The logic was airtight: my visual experience was clearly the only one being rendered. Everybody else was an NPC.

5. Quicksand would be a major recurring problem in adult life

Cartoons and films promised me that quicksand, lava, and falling pianos would be frequent obstacles. I budgeted significant mental energy preparing for these. To date I have encountered exactly zero quicksand. Meanwhile nobody warned me about expense receipts, hold music, or the precise emotional weight of a ‘we need to talk’ text. The threat assessment was wildly off.

6. The fridge light was hiding something

There was a tiny, persistent suspicion that the fridge light didsomething when the door was shut — that a small drama unfolded in the dark and went still the instant I opened it. I never caught it. I tried the fast-open. I tried closing it slowly to peek. The fridge always won. Honestly, I’m still not one hundred percent convinced.

The exhibit closes

Looking back, the funny thing isn’t that I believed these. It’s the certainty. I wasn’t tentatively wondering whether the moon liked me — I was sure. And that’s the part that ages you, gently, when you notice it: the realisation that conviction has never once been a reliable measure of being right.

Which is a slightly worrying thought, because it means that somewhere in my head right now is a belief just as ridiculous as the seven-year gum theory — one I hold with total confidence and won’t be embarrassed about until I’m much older. I just don’t know which one it is yet.

Probably the one about the fridge.

What did you believe as a kid that makes you laugh now? Tell me yours — I’ll add it to the museum.

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Written in response to the WordPress Daily Writing Prompt — 27 June 2026

Johnbritto Kurusumuthu

Founder 

RISE & INSPIRE

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© 2026 Rise & Inspire.

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Word Count:828

Core message: A great book doesn’t just tell a story — it quietly rearranges how you perceive reality long after you finish reading.

The Room Rearranged Itself

I read John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath expecting a story about a drought. Dust and trucks and a road heading west; a family losing a farm; hard times in a hard decade I had no personal stake in. I got all of that. What I did not expect was that the book would do its real work weeks after I had closed it, quietly, in places that had nothing to do with Oklahoma or the 1930s. I want to tell you about those places, because the change a book makes is almost never where you think it will be. It is not in the part you can summarise. It is in the part you cannot.

Here is one of those places. An ordinary Tuesday, a few weeks after. I was standing in a queue at a chemist, and the woman ahead of me was counting coins out of a small purse, slowly, the way you count when the total matters and you are not sure it will be enough. The pharmacist waited. And I found that I could not look away from her hands — not out of pity, which is a clean and slightly superior emotion, but out of something I had no word for yet. I was seeing the arithmetic of a life. The cost of being unwell while not being rich. A whole world was folded into the gap between what she had and what the box on the counter required, and a few weeks earlier I would have seen only a slow queue.

That is the strange thing I keep returning to. Nothing in the chemist had changed. The fluorescent light was the same indifferent white. The arithmetic had always been there, in that shop, in every shop, performed quietly by people I had stood behind for years. Steinbeck had not put the woman there. What he had done was turn a dial inside me, and a part of the world that had been a smooth grey background resolved suddenly into faces, sums, and consequences. He never mentions a chemist’s queue. That is exactly the point. The novel changes the thing that is reading it, and then sends you back out into your own ordinary streets with the dial turned up and no way to turn it down.

It worked like that for months — small ambushes of attention in situations the book never describes. I would be reading a news item about a factory closing somewhere I had never been, and instead of the number, the percentage of the workforce, I would find myself thinking about a single Wednesday in one of those houses: the particular silence at a particular kitchen table, the way a man might keep getting dressed for a job that no longer existed because he had not yet found the words to tell anyone. Steinbeck had given me an involuntary zoom. The macro view, the view of statistics and trends and the broad sweep of forces, had not been deleted. But it had lost its monopoly. Underneath every large number I could now feel the press of the individual instances it was made of, each one as detailed and unrepeatable as my own.

I should be honest that this was not entirely a gift, and I do not think the book intended it as one. There is a reason the dial usually sits where it sits. Seeing the world at that resolution is expensive. You cannot walk through a city the same way once you have started doing it — the city becomes unbearably populated, every passing stranger trailing an entire unseen biography, every shut door concealing a drama you will never learn the end of. For a while I found it exhausting, almost a kind of tinnitus of empathy, a noise I could not switch off. I understood, for the first time, why people work so hard to keep the dial down. The grey background is a mercy. It lets you cross the road.

And yet I would not turn it back if I could. Because the other thing that resolved into focus was harder to name and more important. I started to notice the architecture — the walls and corridors that decide whose Wednesday is silent and whose is not. It is one thing to feel for the woman counting coins. It is a more uncomfortable thing to understand that her arithmetic and my ease are not two separate facts but one fact, two ends of the same arrangement, and that I had been living at the comfortable end without ever having to look at the structure that put me there. This is the curious power of the book, and the reason naming it tells you so little. The Grapes of Wrath does not lecture you about any of this. It never raises its voice. It simply moves you, for a few hundred pages, to the other end of the arrangement and makes you stand there long enough that you cannot afterwards pretend you had not.

What it took from me was a particular innocence — the innocence of the average. I had always, without noticing, understood the world through its middles: the typical family, the ordinary career, the standard set of choices a person has. The trouble with thinking in middles is that nobody actually lives in the middle. People live in the specific, in the edge cases, in the situations the average was built by quietly ignoring. Once you have felt that, the comfortable abstractions stop comforting. The economy, the workforce, the poor, the system — these words went slightly hollow for me, useful still, but visibly hollow, like a stage set you have walked behind. I could no longer say them without hearing, underneath, the sound of coins being counted.

There is a test I sometimes apply now, almost without deciding to. When I hear a confident sentence about large groups of people — a sentence that sweeps, that generalises, that knows — I try to picture one actual person it claims to describe, picked at random, on an ordinary afternoon. Usually the sentence survives the test poorly. The person is always more particular, more contradictory, more burdened and more resourceful than the sentence allowed. I got that test from a novel about a drought. I did not have it before. It has made me a worse audience for slogans and, I hope, a slightly better neighbour.

The room I live in looks identical to the room I lived in. Same furniture, same window, same view of the same street. But the furniture has been rearranged by an inch in every direction, which is enough to make you walk differently, to put your hand out for a surface and find it an inch from where it was. That is what the book actually did, and why the title at the top of this page explains so little of it. It did not give me new eyes. It did something quieter and more permanent. It told me, gently and without taking it back, that I had been keeping the old ones half-closed — and then it left, and let the ordinary world do the rest.

Written in response to the WordPress Daily Writing Prompt — 26 June 2026

Johnbritto Kurusumuthu

Founder 

RISE & INSPIRE

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Word Count:1265

Have you ever wished a favourite book had ended differently? This reflection explores why an ending isn’t just the last chapter—it shapes the meaning of the entire story. You may never look at book endings the same way again.

Core Message

The ending of a story gives meaning to everything that comes before it. Wanting to rewrite an ending often reveals more about our own expectations and struggles with acceptance than about any flaw in the story itself.

A book’s ending is like a company’s terminal value in financial valuation—it shapes the meaning and worth of everything that comes before it. Just as changing a company’s terminal value alters the value of its entire financial model, changing a book’s ending transforms the entire story. It is no longer the same book but a different work altogether.

Moreover, the value of an ending is not fixed. Each reader interprets it differently, so no single person determines its significance. A reader’s wish to change an ending is simply a personal opinion, not an objective correction.

Ultimately, the desire to rewrite an ending is less about improving the story and more about our struggle to accept outcomes that are beyond our control.  

If you could change the ending of one book you’ve read, would it still be the same book—or would it become an entirely new story? Share your thoughts in the comments.

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Written in response to the WordPress Daily Writing Prompt — 25 June 2026

Johnbritto Kurusumuthu

Founder 

RISE & INSPIRE

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© 2026 Rise & Inspire.

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Word Count:314

The translator I used to be is now a free feature on a device people already own. So the advantage of my languages is being devalued in real time. Which leaves a question I cannot price. What were these languages actually worth, and which one survives once the edge is gone?

The Currencies in My Head Are Being Devalued

I hold three currencies in my head, and I never chose the exchange rate between them.

There is the one I was issued at birth, before I could consent to anything. It came with the territory, literally. I did not earn it, study for it, or shop around for a better one. It was simply the denomination everyone around me transacted in, so I learned to count in it before I knew counting was a skill. Call it the home currency. Stable, deeply held, the one I still think and dream and curse in when no one is performing for an audience.

Then there is English, which I acquired the way a small economy acquires dollars. Not because it was beautiful, but because it was liquid. It is the reserve currency of the modern world, the one accepted at every counter, the medium through which my home currency could finally be exchanged for something beyond its borders. Every door that mattered seemed to have a sign on it, and the sign was in English. So I learned to hold reserves.

And there is a third, somewhere between the two. A regional language, useful within a radius, illiquid the moment I step outside it. Worth a great deal in one marketplace and almost nothing two states over. The kind of holding you keep because you grew up in that market, not because it travels.

For most of my life I thought of these as assets I owned. Holdings on a personal balance sheet. The home currency was my equity, the thing that made me who I am. English was my growth position, the one that compounded into opportunities, salaries, conversations, rooms I would never otherwise have entered. The regional one was a small local stake, sentimental, rarely traded but never sold.

And owning them felt like wealth. Because it was. Speaking more than one language is access others have to pay for. When I read a document in English, I am not waiting on a translator. When I move between my home language and the reserve one, I am buying meaning directly, at face value, while a monolingual buyer pays a premium for the same goods through subtitles, interpreters, and middlemen who take a cut. That gap, the difference between what I pay for understanding and what they pay, is the whole quiet advantage of a multilingual life.

That gap has a name. It is arbitrage.

An arbitrage is what happens when you can buy something in one market and sell it in another for more, simply because you have access the other party lacks. For years, that is exactly what my languages were. I could stand between two worlds and trade across the boundary. Information priced cheaply in one language, valuable in another, and me in the middle, fluent in both, taking the spread. The bilingual cousin who translates for the family. The colleague who can read the foreign supplier’s contract. The friend who negotiates in the local tongue and reports back. Every one of them is running an arbitrage, and the currency they are exploiting is comprehension itself.

But here is the thing every economist knows about an arbitrage. The moment everyone can see it, it closes.

Arbitrage survives only as long as the access is scarce. The instant the gap becomes available to everyone, the spread collapses to nothing, and the advantage you were quietly living on simply evaporates. And I am watching it happen in real time. The person who does not speak my languages now holds a small rectangle of glass that translates a menu by pointing at it, captions a foreign conversation as it is spoken, and reads the supplier’s contract aloud in flawless English a half second after it loads. The translator I used to be is now a free feature on a device they already owned.

So the spread is closing. The premium the monolingual buyer used to pay is dropping toward zero, which means the discount I used to enjoy is worth less every quarter. The reserve currency I worked so hard to accumulate is being printed for everyone, handed out at no cost, and like any currency printed without limit, it is being devalued. Not because I hold less of it, but because scarcity was the only thing that made holding it valuable.

Which forces an uncomfortable audit. If the arbitrage is closing, what were these languages actually worth? And to whom?

Maybe the market value was never the real holding. Maybe the home currency was never an asset to be traded at all, because the thing it buys cannot be bought in any other denomination. The machine can translate the words my grandmother said. It cannot translate what it felt like to be the only one in the room who understood them without trying. The regional language that travels nowhere may turn out to be the one position on the balance sheet that no amount of printing can devalue, precisely because no one was ever trading it.

So here is where the ledger leaves me. The currencies I accumulated for their exchange rate are being quietly devalued by a machine, and the one I dismissed as sentimental and illiquid may be the only thing I own that the machine cannot counterfeit. I spent years building reserves in the language that traveled. I am no longer sure I was holding the currency that mattered.

And if the spread closes completely, I am left with the only question I cannot price: what is a language worth once it stops being an edge and goes back to being just a way of belonging to someone?

Which language do you speak that the world says is worthless, but you would never trade away? And has machine translation changed how much you value the languages you actually worked to learn?

If you like takes that treat ordinary questions as problems to be audited rather than feelings to be shared, I send one of these out regularly. No noise, no filler, just an unconventional angle on something you thought you had already figured out. Subscribe and I will meet you in your inbox with the next one.

Written in response to the WordPress Daily Writing Prompt — 24 June 2026

Johnbritto Kurusumuthu

Founder 

RISE & INSPIRE

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© 2026 Rise & Inspire.

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Word Count:1139

We tend to assume wisdom flows one way, from the older to the younger. But the longer I live, the more I doubt it. The young still forgive without a ledger, ask their impossible questions, and believe the world can be better. Somewhere along the way, many of us lost all three. Here is a reflection on what the young still know that age made us forget, and why the arrow of mentorship may point both ways.

The reflection’s central truth is:

Wisdom does not belong exclusively to age. God often teaches adults through the qualities children naturally possess—wonder, forgiveness, openness, trust, and hope. True wisdom flows in both directions, and spiritual maturity means growing older without losing these childlike virtues.

The Best Advice I Can Give the Young Is This: Don’t Take Mine

There is a quiet arrogance built into the very question. What is the best advice you’d give to someone younger than you? The phrasing assumes the arrow of wisdom points only one way — downward, from the older to the younger, from the experienced to the untried. We have grown so comfortable with that assumption that we no longer notice it. And yet the longer I live, the more I am convinced it is mostly wrong.

So here is my advice to the young, and I offer it knowing how strange it sounds from a man my age: do not take my advice too seriously. Watch, instead, what you already know how to do that I have forgotten.

You still know how to begin a thing without first calculating whether you will finish it well. You forgive on Tuesday what wounded you on Monday, and you do it without a ledger. You ask “why” without embarrassment. You weep openly and laugh from somewhere deep, untrained by years of learning to manage your face. You believe, still, that the world can be made better, and you have not yet been persuaded that this belief is naïve. These are not the deficiencies of inexperience. These are competencies. And somewhere on the long road of becoming respectable, I lost most of them.

The Gospel, I think, knew this before any of us. When the disciples came arguing about who was the greatest — the oldest argument in the world, the argument the original prompt quietly takes for granted — Jesus did not settle it by ranking them. He set a child in the midst of them and said that unless they turned and became like that child, they would not even enter the kingdom. Not teach the child. Not correct the child. Become like the child. The direction of mentorship was reversed in a single sentence. The small one was placed at the centre, and the accomplished men were told to learn.

“Out of the mouth of babes and infants you have ordained strength,” the Psalmist sang, long before. Strength — not cuteness, not charm. There is a power in the unguarded heart that the guarded heart spends decades trying to recover, often without success, and at great expense to therapists.

I do not say this to flatter the young or to romanticise youth, which has its own follies and can be cruel and shallow as easily as anyone. I say it because I have watched too many people my age mistake the accumulation of caution for the acquisition of wisdom. We call our fears “prudence.” We call our cynicism “realism.” We call the slow closing of our hearts “maturity.” And then we sit the young down and instruct them to become more like us, as though our weathered defensiveness were the summit of the human project rather than one of its sadder casualties.

The truth is humbler and more beautiful. Wisdom does not travel in one direction. It moves between people who are willing to learn from one another, and the willingness matters more than the age. The grandfather teaches the grandchild patience; the grandchild teaches the grandfather wonder. Neither exchange is complete without the other. To pretend that only the elder gives and only the younger receives is to impoverish them both.

So if you are younger than I am, here is the whole of what I have to offer, and it is less an instruction than a plea. Guard the things in you that the years will try to take. Keep asking your impossible questions. Keep your capacity to be astonished. Keep forgiving without a ledger. Do not let anyone — least of all an older person quoting Scripture — convince you that growing up means growing hard.

And when you meet someone my age who has somehow kept these things alive into old age, sit at their feet. They have learned the hardest lesson of all: how to become old without ceasing to be young. They are the ones worth listening to. The rest of us are still trying to find our way back to where you already stand.

That, in the end, is the best advice I can give. Be slow to take advice — and quick to notice everything the advice-givers have lost.

Written in response to the WordPress Daily Writing Prompt — 23 June 2026

Johnbritto Kurusumuthu

Founder 

RISE & INSPIRE

Explore more at the Rise & Inspire archive |  Daily Prompts 

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Word Count:891

Here is something I have been thinking about. The person who inspired me most at twenty is not the person who inspires me most today. Back then I admired brilliance, the people who had clearly arrived. Now I am moved by something quieter, the ones who simply keep showing up, year after year, when no one is keeping score. And here is what surprised me when I wrote it down: the shift was never really about them. It was about me. Our heroes are confessions. They reveal the wound we are trying to heal and the virtue we have come to prize. I would love to know if you have felt this same shift. The new post is on the blog.

The People Who Move Us Change — and That Is the Point

On who inspired me then, who inspires me now, and what the difference reveals

Ask me at twenty who inspired me most, and I would have answered without hesitation. Ask me today, and I find myself pausing — not because no one comes to mind, but because the kind of person who moves me has quietly, almost imperceptibly, changed. The name has shifted. So has the reason. And I have come to believe that the shift itself is worth more than either answer.

Inspiration, it turns out, is a mirror. Tell me who you admire, and you have told me who you are trying to become.

Then: the one who dazzled

In my younger years I was drawn to brilliance. The figure I most admired was someone who could hold a room — quick, accomplished, visibly successful, the sort of person whose achievements arrived in a steady, enviable stream. I studied how they spoke. I wanted the certainty they seemed to carry, the way the world appeared to arrange itself around their competence.

What I was really chasing, I now see, was arrival. I wanted to be impressive. And so I was inspired by impressiveness — by the people who had clearly gotten somewhere, who stood at a height I had not yet reached. It was an inspiration built on distance. I looked up, and the looking up was the whole of it.

There was nothing wrong with this. The young are meant to admire the summit; it is what makes them climb. But admiration of that kind has a short shelf life. The summit, once reached or once seen clearly, turns out to be just another stretch of ground.

Now: the one who endures

These days I am moved by something far quieter. The person who inspires me now is not the most brilliant in the room but the most faithful to it — someone who shows up, day after unremarkable day, and does the small right thing when no one is keeping score. I think of a person who keeps a single private discipline for years without announcement, simply because it is good and because they said they would.

This is a harder kind of greatness to notice. It photographs poorly. It wins no immediate applause. But it is the kind that holds weight over a lifetime, and the older I get the more I understand that consistency is the rarest talent of all. Anyone can be inspired for an afternoon. Almost no one sustains it for thirty years.

Where I once admired height, I now admire constancy. Where I looked up, I now look closely. The change is not that my standards fell, but that they deepened. I stopped asking “who has arrived?” and started asking “who keeps going?” — and the second question, I have found, is the one that actually teaches you how to live.

What the difference reveals

Here is the part that surprised me. The shift in who inspires me was never really about them. It was about me.

At twenty I admired success because I was insecure about my own. At this stage of life I admire faithfulness because I have learned, sometimes the hard way, what it costs and how much it matters. Our heroes are confessions. They reveal the wound we are trying to heal and the virtue we have come to prize. When the people who move us change, it is usually a sign that we have changed first — that some quieter, steadier self has begun to emerge beneath the one that only wanted to be impressive.

There is a gentle faith dimension to this for me as well. I have come to think that the truest inspiration does not draw attention to the person at all, but points through them to something larger — a grace they carry rather than possess, a light they pass along rather than generate. The people I most admire now seem aware that they are vessels, not sources. And perhaps that is the final maturity of inspiration: to be moved less by those who shine, and more by those who simply, faithfully, keep the lamp lit.

A question to carry

So I will leave you with the question that this prompt left with me. Picture the person who inspired you most at twenty, and the person who inspires you most today. If the two are different — and they probably are — do not rush past the gap between them.

Sit with it. Because in that gap is the quiet record of who you have become.

Written in response to the WordPress Daily Writing Prompt — 22 June 2026

Johnbritto Kurusumuthu

Founder 

RISE & INSPIRE

Inspiration • Faith • Education • Technology • Personal Development

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Word Count:992