I was sixteen and attending a winter retreat with my church youth group. The theme for the weekend was simple: “Blow your own horn.”
For many of the other teenagers, that sounded like fun. For me, it sounded dangerous.
I wasn’t very good at talking about my strengths. In fact, I had spent much of my childhood learning the opposite. Growing up, it felt safer to make myself small—to avoid drawing attention to myself and to stay close to the front of the pack without ever stepping too far ahead. Success was expected; failure wasn’t an option. The safest place was where you were noticed just enough, but never enough to become a target.
One of the retreat activities was a Monopoly-style board game. Whenever your token landed on a particular square, you had to name something you were good at or something you had accomplished before you could continue around the board.
It sounds like a simple exercise.
For me, it was not.
I remember searching for something to say that didn’t feel boastful, thereby encouraging ridicule. The fact that it was a game made it feel a little safer, but I still found myself wondering whether it was really acceptable to acknowledge something I did well.
That uncertainty had deep roots.
I remember bringing home a paper when I was about twelve years old. Proudly, I showed my father the “A” at the top of the page.
He looked at the paper.
He looked at me.
Then he asked, “Why wasn’t it an A+?”
It is remarkable how quickly children learn what earns approval—and what never quite does.
A few years later, I left home to attend Northfield Mount Hermon School in Massachusetts. Those three years changed my life in countless ways, but one lesson has remained with me ever since.
My history teacher, Glenn Vandervliet, assigned our first paper of the year. When he returned it, I was surprised to see a “B.” The student sitting next to me had received an “A.” Curious, I asked if I could read her paper.
She agreed.
After reading it, I was even more puzzled. I honestly believed my paper was stronger.
So I waited after class.
“Mr. Vandervliet,” I said, “you gave me a B.”
“Yes.”
“You gave her an A.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve read her paper, and I don’t think it’s better than mine.”
He smiled—not dismissively, but knowingly.
“She gave me her best work,” he said. “You didn’t. Go rewrite your paper. Give me your best work, and I’ll read it again.”
I have never forgotten that experience.
For the first time, someone wasn’t criticizing me because I had fallen short of perfection. He was inviting me to become more fully who he believed I could be. He saw potential that I had hidden, perhaps even from myself.
That is a very different kind of expectation.
It wasn’t about comparison.
It wasn’t about proving my worth.
It was about discovering it.
Looking back, I realize that the youth retreat and Mr. Vandervliet were teaching the same lesson from different directions. Learning to “blow your own horn” isn’t about bragging. It isn’t about believing you’re better than someone else. It is about honestly acknowledging the gifts you’ve been given and having the courage to use them well.
Many of us were taught that humility means minimizing ourselves. Genuine humility is something different. It is seeing ourselves truthfully—our limitations, certainly, but also our strengths—and offering both in service to others.
Most of us can remember the people who first truly saw us. They recognized abilities we doubted, encouraged us when we hesitated, and refused to let us settle for less than our best. Those moments often become turning points because they allow us to imagine a future we had not yet imagined for ourselves.
So I wonder:
Who first taught you to recognize your own strengths?
Who has seen something in you that you struggled to see in yourself?
What gifts have you spent too much time hiding?
And where, in this season of your life, might it be time to blow your own horn—not for applause, but as an honest acknowledgment of the person you have become and the gifts you have to offer?
The world has enough people hiding their light.
Perhaps what it needs is more people who have learned, with gratitude and humility, to let it shine.
