Track 04: Am I Really HIM?

A reflection on space, self-worth, and support

It started with a simple request: Read me for filth.

And ChatGPT did exactly that. Not in a shady way, but in a way that made me sit with myself a little longer than I expected.

One line in particular wouldn’t let go of me:

“And let’s talk about your humility for a second—it’s cute, but baby, it’s starting to look like sabotage in drag. You’re not doing anyone any favors playing small when you’ve already proven you can take up space like a main character.”

Whew.

---

What was supposed to be a light moment turned into something deeper. Then I woke up this morning, saw a post from Qamil that said, “PROMOTE YOUR SH*T!! CONSISTENTLY,” and it came to me like an epiphany.

This isn’t just about self-promo. It’s about the hesitation that shows up when you start stepping into your light. It’s about questioning your value even when you know you’ve got something special. It’s about hearing people call you a star, but still wondering if they only say it out of pity, loyalty, or love.

I’ve been told I have main character energy, but there are so many moments where I don’t feel worthy of that role. So yeah, let’s talk about it. About the disconnect. About needing your support system to be ready for your rise. About not wanting to come off cocky. And about what happens when you start to believe in your own greatness, even when part of you still doesn’t.

I think the first time somebody told me I was good, like really good, was back in high school.

We had this little talent show at DuVal. Our own version of American Idol or America’s Got Talent. I signed up. Picked a track that felt safe. Something I could sit in without doing too much. That’s probably when my dislike for karaoke and singing to tracks really started. I need control when I sing. I like space to breathe. To move. To feel.

Back then, I wasn’t thinking about winning. I just didn’t want to mess up. I wanted to get through it without drawing too much attention. And deep down, I already felt like I didn’t belong in the spotlight.

Truth is, I wasn’t confident that night. I had spent so much time being told my voice was better suited for the background. For the choir. For blending in, not standing out. I felt unprepared and unsure, like I just needed to get through it without embarrassing myself. So I sang. I smiled. I did what I could in that moment. And then I moved on.

I didn’t really sit with the experience until much later. I didn’t even hold on to most of it. I tucked it away, mostly because I didn’t think it was worth remembering. But one moment still found its way back to me.

My friend Cyrone was one of the judges. After I finished, he told me he loved my tone.

I remember that. Not just the words, but the way he said it.

At the time, I didn’t really know what to do with that. “Tone” felt like code. A gentle way of saying, you’re not bad. You’re just not the one.

Even later, as I started to find more confidence in my voice and stepped away from the choir and into myself, people would still say it. “I just love your tone.” And every time, I’d smile, say thank you, and quietly tell myself that it was just a nice way of saying I could carry a tune.

I had convinced myself that compliments like that were rooted in pity. Or loyalty. Or love that didn’t see me clearly. And to this day, even when people tell me I have main character energy or say I light up a room, there’s still this quiet part of me that wonders if I really deserve the space I take up.

It’s strange how we can sound confident and still be unsure.

How we can look like we believe in ourselves and still carry doubt tucked behind every thank you.

How we can be told we’re the one and still ask for permission to be seen.

I’ve learned how to stand in the light, but part of me still flinches in it. Not because I don’t want to shine.

But because for so long, I was made to feel like I had to earn it.

Like my light had to be justified instead of simply believed.

And that’s before we even get into how the people around you respond once you start shining. That part hurts in a different way. I have friends and family who ask to be tagged in everything. They want to be seen supporting me, and when it’s genuine, that means the world. But there are others who only share my music when it’s convenient, or not at all. It’s like pulling teeth to get them to post it, to buy it, to talk about it. And the truth is, I notice. Not because I need validation, but because I pay attention to what people choose to amplify and what they choose to ignore.

It makes me wonder. Do they believe in me, or are they just loyal to the version of me they’re used to? Are they sharing out of love, or out of some obligation they can’t name? Or maybe, they just don’t feel me like that. Maybe they see me like the grown man still pushing his mixtape, and that’s where their support ends.

And I get it. There are so many voices, so much noise. But it still stings when the ones you expect to be the loudest in your corner barely make a sound. Every time I release something, it’s personal. It’s not just content. It’s a piece of me. And when it’s met with silence or indifference, it makes me question if I’m doing too much. Or worse, not enough.

I’ve never needed a cheering squad. But I do need real ones. The kind of people who don’t just show up when the numbers start climbing. The ones who understand that visibility isn’t always validation, and that creating while healing is a quiet kind of courage. The ones who know what it costs to keep putting your work out there when you’re still wondering if anyone’s even watching.

The ones who get that silence isn’t neutral. It’s a mirror. And sometimes, the reflection is painful. Not because you see failure, but because you see effort that feels invisible.

And if I’m being honest, it’s not about shrinking to make other people comfortable. It’s about shrinking because some part of me still doesn’t believe I deserve to be seen in the first place. I don’t pull back to protect their egos. I pull back because I question whether I belong in the same rooms, the same feeds, the same conversations as the people who seem to have it all figured out.

I don’t always feel like I’ve earned the right to take up space. Even when I know my gift speaks for itself, there’s a part of me that still whispers, stay small. Stay safe. Stay unseen.

I look at some of these artists and personalities with massive followings, and I know deep in my spirit that my talent stands right there with them. I know I have something to say. Something to give. But I don’t have the machine behind me. I don’t have the big budget, the big team, the big co-sign. Hell, sometimes I barely have the support of the people closest to me.

That part cuts deeper than I like to admit.

Because I’m not waiting to be famous. I’m not looking for clout. I just want to build something real. I want my voice to reach the people who need it. I want the work I create to connect. And when it feels like I’m putting my heart out there just to hear it echo back with silence, it makes me question everything. Not just the grind, but the gift itself.

It’s hard to believe you’re worthy of being seen when you feel invisible.

And that’s where the real shrinking happens. Not because I think I’m too much. But because I’m scared I’m not enough. Not visible enough. Not followed enough. Not loud enough to break through all the noise. And yet, every time I try to dim my light, something inside of me won’t let me quit. Something still whispers, you’ve got it. Keep going. Keep showing up. Keep shining, even when it feels like nobody’s watching.

Because the truth is, I’m not trying to be a moment. I’m building something meant to last.

But when you’re creating without a crowd, when the numbers aren’t jumping, when the algorithm isn’t playing in your favor, it’s easy to wonder if your gift is even real. You start asking yourself things you shouldn’t have to. Like, does it still count if nobody sees it? Does it still matter if nobody shares it? Am I singing into a void, or is somebody out there really listening?

And then I go back to that word.

Tone.

I used to pick it apart like it was a placeholder. A way to acknowledge me without really seeing me. But now I’m starting to understand it differently. Maybe they were hearing something I wasn’t ready to believe yet. Maybe they saw the parts of me I kept quiet. Maybe tone wasn’t a soft compliment. Maybe it was recognition. A nudge. A call to own what has always been mine.

Because no machine can create tone. No following can fabricate what’s embedded in your voice. No viral moment can substitute for what’s felt when someone closes their eyes and really listens to you. My tone has always been the thing that sets me apart. It’s my fingerprint. The evidence of something deeper. And maybe it’s time I start treating it that way.

So as I sit with what I feel, what I lack, and what I want, I’m realizing this whole journey isn’t just about making it. It’s about making peace with the fact that I already have something special. And that the people who are supposed to hear it will. The rest? That’s noise. That’s delay. That’s background static.

And funny enough, that’s exactly where I started. In the background. Trying to blend in. Trying not to make waves.

Now I’m learning to stop whispering my way through a calling that was never meant to be quiet.

And here’s the part that still gets me. Even after the writing, the recording, the designing, the rehearsing. Even after all the quiet nights where I’ve poured my whole soul into something that didn’t exist before me. I’ll still hesitate before I hit post.

I’ll stare at the screen and second-guess every word.

Is this caption doing too much?

Is this graphic too polished?

Will they think I’m trying too hard?

Do I sound full of myself?

That’s what people don’t see. The tug-of-war behind the scenes. The push and pull between knowing your work deserves the spotlight and not wanting to look like you’re chasing it. Because for someone like me, promoting myself isn’t just business. It feels personal. Intimate. Vulnerable. Every post is a piece of me saying, “I believe in this,” even when part of me still isn’t sure.

And it’s not because I don’t have faith in my gift. I do. But sometimes the silence after you share something loud and proud makes you start questioning whether you should’ve kept it to yourself. That kind of doubt doesn’t show up as insecurity. It shows up as hesitation. As softness. As drafts that never get posted. Songs that sit on hard drives. Projects that almost made it to the world but didn’t, simply because I didn’t want to look like I was doing too much.

I’ve seen the way people talk about artists who push their own work. The eye rolls. The shade. The unspoken rules about how often is too often to talk about yourself. And I’ve internalized it. More than I’d like to admit.

But here’s what I’m coming to understand.

The people who benefit from your silence will never encourage your sound.

And the version of me I’m becoming has no room for shrinking.

So yeah, I’m learning to talk about my work like I believe in it. I’m learning to promote like someone who knows what they carry. I’m learning to take up space without apologizing for it. Not because I think I’m better than anybody else. But because I finally realize I’m not less.

This morning I opened my phone and saw a post from Qamil that said, “PROMOTE YOUR SH*T!! CONSISTENTLY. #KBYE.”

And I laughed. Then I sat still for a second, because it hit deeper than I expected. It wasn’t just about content or visibility. It felt like a reminder I didn’t know I needed. A little nudge from the universe saying, stop waiting for permission. Stop assuming people are going to magically find you. Stop hiding behind your humble.

Because the truth is, nobody is coming to rescue your gift. Nobody is going to fight harder for your vision than you. That post didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like a mirror. Like it was time to stop performing for approval and start standing in the work I’ve already done. Work I’m proud of. Work I’ve cried over. Work I’ve healed through.

And I think back to that younger version of me, standing on stage at DuVal, wondering if I was just decent or if I really had something. I think about how many years I spent holding back. I think about the friends who stayed quiet and the nights I wanted to give up. I think about all the times I whispered my worth instead of owning it. And I realize that every part of this journey has been leading me right here. To this clarity. To this choice.

I’m not just talented. I’m not just a nice tone. I’m not just someone people root for out of loyalty or love.

I’m good at what I do.

And maybe I don’t have the big machine. Maybe I don’t have the viral moment or the co-sign. But what I do have is a voice that moves people. A vision that’s mine. And a story that deserves to be told.

So yes, I’m going to promote my shit. I’m going to talk about my work. I’m going to believe in my own brilliance out loud. Not because it’s trendy. But because it’s time.

And if you’ve ever felt like me and asked yourself that same quiet question, “Am I really him?” I want you to know the answer is yes.

You are.

You are HIM. You are HER. You are THEM. You are the moment. The movement. The masterpiece.

You don’t need permission to take up space.

You already do.