People have been telling me for years that I should sing.
Sometimes it's after church. Sometimes it's after a speech. Sometimes it's after hearing me lead a fraternity song.
"Michael, you've got a good voice."
"You ought to be in the choir."
"You should sing a solo sometime."
I usually smile, thank them, and quietly change the subject.
For years I believed singing was one of my unused gifts. I've spent my life speaking, telling stories, writing books, leading organizations, and encouraging others to discover their own talents. Yet singing remained one of the few doors I had never opened.
Or so I thought.
As I began writing this notebook entry, my mind drifted back to my childhood in Leavenworth, Kansas.
I grew up attending two Black churches — Independent Baptist Church and Bethel AME Church. Those churches weren't just places of worship; they were filled with music. And they were filled with singers. Not just a few singers. Entire families.
There were the Lang brothers, Leo and Leon, twins whose voices blended so beautifully they seemed to sing as one. Their brothers Ronald and Donald sang as well.
The Smith family had Darnell and Carnell, another set of twins, along with their sisters Barbara and Azora.
Then there were the elders, friends of my father, men like Mr. Clarence Thomas and his brother, Mr. Wilbur Thomas. Mr. Wilbur had one of those rich voices that could fill the sanctuary without a microphone. Their children sang too.
Looking back, it seemed every family had someone who could stand up and make the congregation smile.
When everyone around you seems extraordinary, it's easy to convince yourself that your own gift is ordinary.
Compared to them, I never imagined there was much room for me.
So I stayed where it felt safe. I sang with everyone else. Never by myself. Never in front.
Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that singing belonged to people who were better than I was.
That belief followed me into adulthood.
Or at least I thought it did.
Then, while writing this very story, something unexpected occurred to me.
I've actually sung in public many times.
When my fraternity brothers gather and someone needs to lead one of our songs, they often point to me. "Michael, you lead it." And I do. Without hesitation.
When we've serenaded our sweethearts, I've stood in front and started the song. I've sung loudly. Confidently. Joyfully.
Not once have I thought, I can't do this.
That realization stopped me in my tracks.
Maybe I don't have a fear of singing after all.
Maybe I've spent my life comparing.
When I'm surrounded by people I consider extraordinary singers, I quietly step back and let them shine. When I'm surrounded by people who simply need someone to lead, I step forward without thinking twice.
The difference isn't my voice. The difference is the story I've been telling myself.
Comparison is a funny thing. It doesn't always steal our joy. Sometimes it steals our participation. It whispers that because someone else is better, our contribution doesn't matter.
How many books never get written because someone compares themselves to a bestselling author? How many businesses never get started because someone believes someone else has already done it better? How many stories never get told because another storyteller seems more gifted?
I wonder how many dreams remain hidden — not because people lack talent, but because they spend too much time measuring themselves against everyone else.
At seventy-two years old, I may finally understand something I should have learned decades ago.
The world has never asked me to be the best singer. It has only asked me to use the voice I've been given.
Maybe that's true for all of us. Perhaps our greatest potential isn't waiting for more talent. Perhaps it's waiting for us to stop comparing.
So the next time someone tells me I ought to sing… instead of smiling politely and changing the subject… I think my answer will simply be,
"Yes."
A Question to Consider
Where in your life have you been sitting quietly — not because you lack the ability, but because you've convinced yourself someone else is better? What would happen if you simply used the gifts you've already been given?