“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” — Matthew 5:5

If humility had a dashboard light, mine started blinking the year I thought I had everything figured out.

I consider myself one of the most blessed people I know. I grew up surrounded by heroes—my father and my grandfather at the top of the list—and a cast of family, teachers, coaches, and church members who poured into me. They weren’t perfect, but perfectly placed. They shaped me.

My working definition of humility: recognizing the people and the factors that formed me—and remembering whose shoulders I’m standing on.

Now, here’s where it gets interesting. My journey down “Humility Lane” has tracked Stephen Covey’s continuum of maturity—Dependence → Independence → Interdependence. As a kid, I was attached at the hip to my heroes—right there in the woods, chainsaw in hand, sawdust in the air, learning by doing. Then I hit Independence, and something under the hood changed. And not for the better.

Somewhere along the way, my car of humility broke down at “Independence Station.” And our culture loves that station, right? “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps.” “Prove you’ve got what it takes.” I genuinely wanted to honor my father and grandfather for all they had done for me… but quietly, I slipped into competition with the very people who were cheering me on.

In 2019, at a men’s conference in Fort Worth, the room went quiet for me. I saw it: I was competing with my father’s legacy. He retired at 55, so I set a goal to retire at 45. Not because I didn’t revere him—but because I did. My “thank you” morphed into “watch me outdo you.” And beneath that? Fear. Fear that I wouldn’t live up to his name.

In some cultures, there’s a clear rite of passage into manhood. I didn’t have a ceremony… so I invented a scoreboard. If I could surpass his accomplishments, then I’d prove I was a man. Because if independence is strength, then surpassing them had to be the proof. That standard felt noble, but it was built on an illusion. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to let independence erode the bank of humility—it was a slow drift. Inch by inch. Silent, defensible, even praiseworthy from the outside.

The drift didn’t just affect goals; it affects relationships. I’ve developed a heightened sense of awareness to this now because drift can creep into any relationship—marriage, parenting, work, friendships. Without humility, comparison replaces celebration, performance replaces presence, and honor becomes a scoreboard.

Somebody once told me, “Strength lives at the intersection of transparency and vulnerability.” I’ve come to believe that. Humility is the street that takes you to that intersection. It’s the springboard to effectiveness because it lets us share—our stories, our resources, our wisdom—so everyone wins.

One of the greatest days of my life was when I finally discerned the team placed around me—the day I realized I’m a part of something, not the whole sum. That awareness set me free to celebrate instead of compete, to give credit instead of hoard it, and to ask better questions instead of always trying to have the best answers. Humility became the stabilizing force that kept my relationships from drifting.

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” Meek doesn’t mean weak. It’s strength under control—strength submitted to purpose. As a father of four, I think a lot about inheritance—not just money, but the culture my kids inherit: Will they inherit gratitude over comparison? We over me? Celebration over competition? That’s the kind of “earth” I want them to inherit.

Questions to leave in the room

1. What’s my current level of gratitude with each person I’m involved with, and how will I express it this week?
2. Where am I needed to be second so that we can be first?