Humility and Pride:

Learning to Let Go of Ego

Humility in Christ

There’s a lot of noise in the world about how to matter. Be successful. Be impressive. Be seen. That’s what billboards, social media, and endless scrolling feeds tell us. But as I get older, especially since losing my son Kevin, I’ve started to question all of that. What if the loudest voices aren’t the ones we should listen to? What if the people who leave the deepest mark are those who never sought the spotlight? Kevin was one of those people.

We had lived in a community that screamed success and status. But Kevin didn’t care about designer clothes or luxury cars. He shopped at thrift stores and gently encouraged me to do the same. He drove a simple car and lived in a modest basement apartment, not because it was the cheapest (it wasn’t), but because that reflected his personality.

He couldn’t stand the false illusion of social media. The perfect images, the “look at me” posts, and the pressure to be someone other than himself. He rarely posted, not because he didn’t care, but because it made him feel like everyone else had what he lacked: perfect families, perfect friendships, perfect lives. Even though he knew it was what society projected, it still hurt. And the truth is, he wasn’t alone. Many of us feel that same weight, like we’re not enough.

Pride isn’t always loud or boastful. Sometimes, it hides behind silence and shame. Kevin had a quiet kind of pride, the kind that made him feel he had to prove his strength by hiding his pain. He once told me that he thought his psychotherapist wasn’t smart enough to help him because she was younger than he was. It was his way of protecting himself, I believe that it was a shield, a rationalization. He even admitted that he could have lied to her. That’s what pride can do. It can keep us from being honest, not just with others but with ourselves. Additionally, pride often prevents personal growth because it blocks acknowledgment of our shortcomings and suffering.

Kevin didn’t want his friends to think less of him. In his mind, depression was a weakness, something that made him “less of a man.” So he let his pride take over. He told them he couldn’t drink because of a DWI, which seemed more socially acceptable and less shameful. But he didn’t tell them about his mental illness. That stayed hidden, buried beneath layers of pride, fear, and pain.

Kevin was struggling himself, but he helped others with their mental health struggles. One of his friends (where we had lived), visited me after Kevin died and shared how Kevin had made special trips to talk with his girlfriend, who was battling depression. That was just one of many stories. He gave his time and presence quietly, without seeking recognition. Yet he still wore the mask of shame when it came to his pain. He didn’t ask for the same help he so freely gave. Writing my last post about The Mask We Wear: Hiding Pain (https://www.sitarhero.com/post/the-mask-we-wear-hiding-pain) made me realize how humility can be a game-changer for those hiding behind a mask.

And isn’t that what ego often does? It builds a barrier around our true selves, driven by fear of rejection, failure, or not being “enough.” But that barrier keeps us stuck. It isolates us from healing and from the people who want to care for us. I’ve seen others refuse help because of pride, and I’ve seen how tragically that can end. Ego is part of being human. It shapes our identity. But we can’t let it take over. Humility helps us grow, reach out, be real, and find healing in community.

In early grief, I tried to stay "strong.” But I realize now that sometimes pride kept me from healing. I believed I had to face sorrow alone, that I shouldn’t “burden” others with my tears even when I was falling apart inside.

Sometimes, I still hesitate to cry in front of others. I fear their pity or, worse, their judgment that I “should be over this by now.” Humility is when we answer honestly when someone asks, “How are you?” It’s when we call a friend and say, “I can’t do this alone.” “It is hard.” It’s when we fall to our knees before God and say, “I need You.”

Grief has humbled me. It has taught me that I don’t have all the answers. It has shown me that I need others. And most importantly, I need God. We often confuse pride with confidence, but pride is simply fear in disguise. It’s the voice that says:

• Don’t cry in front of them.

• Don’t admit you’re struggling.

• Don’t ask for help; you should be stronger than this.

As I have traveled this journey of grief, I have gained a deeper understanding, recognizing that I don’t have all the answers, nor am I an expert in understanding others’ suffering. Grief can become unhealthy when we grow prideful and claim that our grief is more intense than someone else’s. We tend to believe that what we have experienced is worse than what others endure in their lives. We can develop a perpetual sense of being the victim, feeling we deserve to feel miserable, and expecting others always to feel sorry for us. This is not humility but a strange pride that keeps us stuck in our grief because it has become part of our identity.

I needed spiritual help, and God carried me, held me close, allowed me to be angry, and still loved me. I rely on God’s power every day, whether I am grieving or laughing. During my grief, I surrendered my pride to God.

Humility isn’t weakness; it’s spiritual empowerment. It’s reflective and honest, unpretentious and open-hearted. Our culture often views humility as being small or meek. But in God's eyes, humility is powerful. We are valuable, which is why Jesus died for us. Proverbs 22:4 states, By humility and the fear of the LORD are riches, and honour, and life. This verse highlights that true humility comes from revering God, and in return, He blesses those who walk in humility.

You don’t have to pretend to have it all together, as none of us does. Everyone already knows you’re not perfect, and that’s okay. Humility isn’t about denying your strengths; it’s about being honest about your weaknesses. We’re all a mixture of humility and pride.

“Humility is not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less.” – C.S. Lewis.

Since Kevin died, I’ve started asking more complex questions:

• Am I doing this to feel worthy, or because it truly reflects who I am?

• Am I trying to be seen, or trying to live with meaning?

• Am I living from ego or a place of truth?

I recognize that my journey through grief has shaped the course of my life. I am grateful to have experienced love and to be loved, sharing my life with others who have encouraged, supported, and challenged me to grow. Grief has helped me mature, enabling me to see life differently and focus on what truly matters.

Kevin helped others with their pain. He made time for friends who were struggling, offering empathy and kindness. He was humble in how he gave to others, but he found it much harder to turn that same compassion inward. I think many of us do. We don’t want to be seen as weak or broken, so we pretend we’re fine, even when we’re not.

But healing doesn’t occur behind a falsehood. It begins with humility, admitting we need help and being honest about who we are and what we’re going through. Pride says, “I have to handle this alone.” Humility says, “I can’t do this alone, and I don’t have to.” When we embrace humility, we create space for truth, vulnerability, and connection. Everyone struggles, and no one is immune to pain.

Reflection

• Where in your life are you feeling the pressure to perform or project an image?

• What would it be like to live more simply and honestly?

• Can you permit yourself just to be who you are, without apology?

  
  

After Kevin died, I spent a long time searching for answers. For peace and purpose. I asked God why this happened. I questioned myself a million times. I looked back over the twelve-plus years of his struggle with depression, wondering what we missed, what more we could have done. There were no simple answers, only complexity—layers of love, pain, grace, and regret.

When I was writing my last post, I discovered the quiet, healing power of humility. Not the kind of humility that comes from being shamed or diminished. I’m talking about the kind that gently strips away ego, clears the fog of pride, and helps you see things and people more clearly. C.S. Lewis writes that:

"As long as you are proud, you cannot know God. A proud man is always looking down on things and people, and, of course, as long as you are looking down, you cannot see something that is above you."

Life isn’t about impressing others; it’s about being kind and humble. That’s what I want my life to show. Humility isn’t something to be achieved and move on from. It is something that must be cultivated and constantly returned to. It’s about whether we showed up for people, made room for gentleness, and told the truth about how hard it was, while still choosing love.