Every now and then, like anyone, I’ll get a compliment tossed my way. A little signal that maybe I’m doing the right thing—that maybe I’m not screwing it all up.
And every time—every time—I give the same reply:
“Thanks! Just doing my best.”
It may sound canned—dialogue delivered on autopilot—but it carries a lineage—years of battling imposter syndrome, ego, and overthinking. A response sanded down, polished, and stripped of every ounce of fat until only the essentials remain.
The “thanks” is deliberate. Years ago, I used to deflect compliments, shrug them off, even deny them. But that was just insecurity in disguise. Saying thanks acknowledges what’s been given.
“Just doing my best” is the rest. It’s effort without ego. It’s a reminder—to them, but mostly to me—that I can always learn. Always improve.
And all of it comes from being humbled, again and again.
Yuck
Many years ago, back in my restaurant days, I landed a job at a buffet in my hometown. But this wasn’t your typical all-you-can-eat joint. I’d eaten there once before, randomly, and I remember thinking: this food is way better than it has any right to be.
So when I needed work and saw they were hiring, I jumped. The position? “Cook stove.” Basically, pasta cooked to order—like a Subway sandwich artist, but with pans and fire.
This job was radically different from anything I’d done before. Sure, I’d cooked plenty. But never in front of people. Never with eyes on me as the food came together in real time.
And the setup was bizarre. I had a mountain of pans stacked high above and below me, but not a single proper set of tongs to work with. Every Cambro bin of ingredients had its own flimsy little red tongs, but nothing for me to actually toss and stir pasta with. A tiny detail, maybe—but if you cook, you know how unnatural it is not to have that tool in your hand. But... that was the job.
If I couldn’t use tongs, I’d just turn the pans themselves into a performance. Bigger flips, louder clanks, exaggerated shuffles across the six roaring gas burners. Fire, flare, finesse. Cooking became theater. And it worked—the guests loved it. I felt good. I looked good. I was killing it. That’s what everyone said.
Then one day, mid-service, I noticed something odd: the fresh plates behind me weren’t bone-dry like usual. Tiny water droplets clung to them. Not soaked, just… unusually damp. I shrugged it off and kept working.
Orders rolled in. Pans flew. Flames roared. The crowd grew. Typical service. Anything with butter or oil was my favorite—tip the pan just so, let the fat pool, kiss the flame, and boom: a quick flambé, an impressive burst of fire. It was flashy. Controlled. Fun.
That’s when I saw a familiar face in the crowd—a repeat guest. Nothing unusual. I smiled, ready to take their order.
Instead, they looked me dead in the eye and said:
“The last plate you gave me was wet, wet, wet. And the food was yuck, yuck, yuck!”
I was stunned. Time froze. My face went hot. My jaw locked. My grip on the pan tightened.
Two seconds later, through gritted teeth, I managed: “Sorry about that! Let me try again.”
I don’t remember what I cooked for them after that. I don’t even remember what they ordered. What I do remember is the storm in my chest: the anger, the defensiveness, the... humiliation.
How dare they? How dare they say that to me, to my face, in front of other people, while I’m working this hard? Don’t they know how much extra effort I put in—the tossing, the fire, the show? The wet plates weren’t even my fault. That was the dishwasher’s problem, not mine. I was good at this job. People told me I was the best at this job. I didn’t deserve this.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
It took me a long time to see it clearly. To break down the cocktail of ego panic we’ve all tasted and rarely confess. The truth was simpler: I’d done a bad job. I could’ve wiped those plates dry. I could’ve taken the criticism with grace instead of pretending to apologize through gritted teeth while seething inside.
It’s been almost twenty years since that day. Here’s the part that stuck with me: out of all the times I’ve been humbled since then—and there have been many, with much (much) higher stakes—nothing hit me as hard as that moment. Standing there in the heat of the kitchen, cooking pasta to order, being judged face-to-face by someone who had every right to expect better.
It was awful. Embarrassing. Yuck yuck yucky.
But it was also one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned: stay honest, stay open, stay humble. Whether you’re on top or not.
Publicity
In my journey of getting better at my craft—and just trying to keep my ego in check—I stumbled across a clip years ago. A snippet of an interview with Christopher Lee.
He was talking about the dangers of fame. How intoxicating it can be for young actors to get caught up in the spotlight, to start believing the headlines and hype. And then he dropped a line that carved itself into me:
“The most dangerous thing a young actor or actress can do is believe in their own publicity.”
That line has followed me ever since. It pops up every time someone gives me a compliment, every time a kind word lands in my inbox or over a Zoom call. Because I know how easy it is to let praise inflate you, to let it whisper that you’ve “made it,” that you’re better than you actually are.
It’s why I default to my canned reply:
“Thanks! Just doing my best.”
It’s not modesty for modesty’s sake. It’s armor. A reminder to myself not to inhale the smoke of my own reputation. To take the compliment, yes, but also to remember that my worth isn’t in the words—it’s in the work.
That’s the foundation of it. Christopher Lee’s warning, filtered through my own battles with ego and imposter syndrome, hardened into a phrase that keeps me steady.
Name
Several years ago, I stumbled across a video clip from what I think was a Twitch event. Field reporter Ovilee May was chatting with someone—talking about dances, Valorant, just soaking up the energy of the crowd. Nothing serious.
Then she realized something. Mid-interview she stopped and said:
“You came up here, you didn’t tell me your name…”
The person smiled and replied, almost casually:
“My name is Mike Shinoda. I play in a band called Linkin Park.”
Ovilee’s reaction was priceless—shock, awe, disbelief colliding all at once. To come face to face with a hero, and not even realize it until that moment.
But what I loved most wasn’t her reaction. It was his.
Mike could’ve leaned into the moment. He could’ve puffed up, flexed his legacy, reminded everyone that he’s part of a band that defined a generation. No one would have blamed him. If anything, most people would expect it. And she probably would have apologized profusely and the crowd would have laughed it off.
But he didn’t. He just… showed up. Plain. Simple. He introduced himself like some guy at some party, as if his name carried no extra weight, no cultural imprint.
That’s humility. That’s confidence without ego. That’s presence without pretense. The ability to show up human, even if the world would excuse you for being larger than life.
I can only hope to carry myself that way.
I can only hope to be as humble as Mike Shinoda was in that moment.
Boasting
And then there’s Bruce Lee.
There’s a razor-thin line between not being loud about what you’ve done and erasing your abilities altogether.
No one walked that line better than Bruce. He once said:
“If I tell you I’m good, probably you will say I’m boasting. But if I tell you I’m no good, you’ll know I’m lying.”
That quote has lived in me ever since. Because that’s the tension I wrestle with daily. Letting the work speak louder than the words. Carrying the confidence without letting it spill into arrogance.
For me, that means keeping my ego in check. Accepting criticism with grace—even when it stings, even when it feels unfair, especially when it sucks. Remembering the shock of being told my food was “yuck, yuck, yuck.” Remembering Christopher Lee’s warning. Remembering Mike Shinoda’s name. Remembering Bruce Lee’s razor.
Humbleness leaves marks. It’s the burn you carry from every time you thought you were hot and got knocked cold. It’s the bruise from every compliment that swelled your ego just enough to make the fall hurt more.
Humility isn’t about pretending you’re small. It’s about staying grounded. Humility isn’t weakness. It’s strength sharpened by scars. It’s about letting your work speak louder than your ego ever could. It’s what’s left when pride gets set on fire.
So I keep it simple. I say thanks. I remind myself I’m still learning. I show up. I stay open to being humbled.
And I just try my best.
Every. Day.