A year ago today, I saw the night sky for the first time in more than a week. My temporary home had been an ice-rated expedition ship, grunting to Antarctica and back during the frozen continent’s summer. It was wild to stand out on the bow of the former Russian research vessel and see flickering lights against a black horizon. I had taken darkness for granted and now soaked it in under headphones filled with faith-based lyrics.
I traveled to Antarctica for my fortieth birthday because I wanted to be humbled.
I’ve lived a charmed life. And while I can’t take credit for a lot of it, I take an unhealthy amount of pride in it. Due to a candid wife, observant friends, and bold mentors, I stay aware of that weakness. I’ve learned the insecurity that drives it and where that lack of self worth originated. I typically recognize an unhealthy moment or motive now within seconds or minutes of its arrival, though I’m still working on averting those moments altogether. Confronting and resisting arrogance has proven a Sisyphean task.
Actually, I compare it more to a whitewater hydraulic that keeps bringing me up for air before churning me under for a while before bringing me back up for an inhaling gasp. If you’ve battled a chemical addiction, a bad habit, or a “besetting sin” in your life, you can probably relate. Being self-aware isn’t enough. Remorse and repentance fall short. Proactiveness doesn’t solve the issue. Even accountability to healthy and caring friends doesn’t cure the disease. Through books, podcasts, lectures, and counseling sessions, though, I’ve learned antidotes that I intentionally deploy into my life.
These practices include:
- going to places in nature whose grandeur gives me perspective on my accomplishments
- refraining from posting about an accomplishment or highlight reel moment
- affirming others publicly and privately in their accomplishments
- sharing others’ stories of success and adventure
- confessing poor motives, looming temptations, and embarrassing occurrences of pride
- asking friends of my same faith to pray for and over me
- listening to music about God’s impressive attributes and the realities of what he’s done for me
- reading verses about the benefits of humility and the consequences of pride
- praying before moments when I know I will feel disproportionally affirmed
- befriending humble people
- anonymously doing charity work or giving charity contributions
- welcoming friends to point out moments my conscience missed
- writing thank you cards to people who’ve contributed to my success
- physically lowering myself to the ground during prayer and other spiritual moments
- reallocating money from my adventures to someone else’s needs or wants
Anyway, as that midlife watershed loomed, I thought Antarctica might be big and pristine enough to cause a full-on course correction in my life. I wanted something bigger than my weekly inoculation from the powerful rivers and immovable mountains of my Blue Ridge home. I fully expected the icebergs and seaside peaks would bring me to my knees. They proved breathtakingly beautiful, but they weren’t what God primarily used on those eleven days at sea.
See, not long after the M/V Ortelius chugged us back into darkness, it brought us back into port. That gave us cell signal, which gave my shipmates and I Facebook and Instagram again—and a chance to see each what other’s lives looked like before they collided on our ship. For eleven days, all I knew of them was what they felt important enough to divulge. What they didn’t tell me illustrated enviable humility. Their example is what I lugged home.
What got me was the contrast of what I brought to the ship and what these seemingly-random strangers did.
For example, back home, my adventure résumé stacks almost as high as any in my social circle. That wasn’t the case on a boat named after the world’s first global cartographer. More than one of my expedition partners had run with the bulls in Pamplona. They’d thrown oranges at the armored wagons in Ivrea’s Battle of the Oranges and tossed tomatoes at each other in Valencia. I shared narrow hallways with polar plungers, deep water solo climbers, and even an avid skier trained in bull fighting. One of our guides was the current chieftain of the Assynt Highland Games in Scotland and had set the land speed record for a motorless zodiac boat (over 70mph—downhill).
For years, I wanted people to know that I traveled the country teaching advertising; but I drank hot tea with a TED talk coach from the Czech Republic, the brand marketing director for CLIF Bar, and a former advertising executive for The Times in London. I snapped photos on the ship’s slippery deck with a woman who helped build Yahoo’s advertising engine, learned Japanese, and has since competed in skeleton, autocross, and motorcycle racing.
The globe in my office shows pins in nearly 30 countries across all seven continents, but I kayaked with an obstetrics nurse who had visited all seven continents that year. One of my fellow snow campers had visited 70 nations already. A pair of my frequent dinner companions was in the middle of a three-month, multi-country honeymoon.
I promote the heck out of on my business’ recent growth; but I sailed through a category 1 hurricane with people who had built international businesses, guys who were retired in their thirties, and the CFO of a hedge fund. I sat through safety briefings with big shots from Hollywood, Silicon Valley, and Wall Street. My work is undeniably interesting, but I’m allowed to talk about it—unlike the former CIA operative who now runs an urban beekeeping business. After we got home, one of our board game buddies was hired to be the head of cybersecurity for Facebook.
Back in Virginia, I take pride in a home big enough for a 1,300 square foot office; but I had played in the snow with someone who has two homes whose values dwarf mine, including one on California’s exclusive waterfront. My email signature touts work in 49 states, but my Dutch shipmate had been recently hired for gigs in Singapore, Buenos Aires, and New York City. I’ve written a book and am working on a second. One of the scientists on my ship has seen one her books translated into seventeen languages.
I could go on, but I’ve been told that the last five paragraphs have already overmade my case. (I included this abbreviated list to give a sense of how inundated I felt.) It wasn’t that my accomplishments were diminished or that these folks flaunted theirs. Quite the contrary. I had to go full Oprah on a couple of them to learn some of that stuff, and I stalked LinkedIn for the rest. I got to know less than half of the 120 other tourists on board. We all left the ship having rubbed lives with fellow explorers whose stories are still quiet mysteries.
I witnessed a parade of humility and quiet confidence.
Many of these folks didn’t express a religious faith, but they collectively preached a sermon to my soul. They could have been what one ancient writer called “angels unaware.” Regardless, they showed me a side of Jesus I crave to know but struggle to own. I came home feeling appropriately small. I had gone to the bottom of the earth with a mission to mine humility, to smuggle some modesty into my duffle bags. I found it—just not where I had expected.
I hope that Antarctic souvenir doesn’t melt anytime soon.
