What They See

James talks. Constantly. About his accomplishments, his connections, his wins. He name-drops. He one-ups. Someone mentions running a 5K, he’s training for a marathon. Someone got a promotion, he just closed a deal worth twice that.

At parties, he dominates conversations. On social media, every post is a humble-brag thinly disguised as gratitude. “Blessed to be speaking at another conference 🙏” “Grateful for this award, couldn’t have done it without my team” (but really, look at me).

People roll their eyes when they see him coming. “Here we go,” they mutter. His coworkers have learned to nod politely and wait for him to run out of steam. His family makes jokes behind his back about his “ego problem.”

Nobody takes him seriously. The more he talks about his achievements, the less impressed anyone becomes. He’s exhausting. Insecure. Trying too hard.

What He Fears

James grew up invisible. Middle child, average grades, unremarkable in every measurable way. His older brother was the athlete. His younger sister was the artist. James was just… there.

At dinner, when he tried to share something from his day, his father would check his phone. His mother would interrupt to talk about his siblings. He learned early: if you’re not exceptional, you don’t exist.

So he became exceptional. Or at least, he learned to perform exceptional.

Every achievement he mentions is real. The marathon training, the deals, the conferences—he’s earned all of it. But he doesn’t share it because he’s proud. He shares it because he’s terrified that the moment he stops proving his worth, people will remember he’s forgettable.

The name-dropping isn’t arrogance. It’s evidence. See? Important people know me. That means I matter.

The one-upping isn’t competition. It’s survival. I have to be more, do more, achieve more, or I’ll disappear again.

Late at night, when the performance ends, James sits with a question he’s been asking since childhood: If I stopped accomplishing things, would anyone still want me here?

He doesn’t know the answer. So he keeps talking.

The Moment

At a company dinner, James is mid-story about a client win when he notices everyone’s eyes have glazed over. One person is checking their phone. Another is looking at the door.

He stops mid-sentence. An awkward silence.

His colleague Maya says gently, “James, we know you’re good at your job. You don’t have to convince us.”

Something in him breaks. “I’m not trying to convince you,” he says quietly. “I’m trying to convince myself.”

The table goes still. It’s the first real thing he’s said in months.

Later, Maya pulls him aside. “Why do you think you’re not enough without the resume?”

He doesn’t have an answer. But for the first time, he’s asking the question.

The Truth

The show-off isn’t arrogant. He’s insecure. Every boast is a plea: Please see me. Please remember I’m here.

We mock people who need constant validation without asking why they need it. We call them attention-seekers without recognizing they’re actually attention-starved, trying to fill a deficit that formed long before we met them.

Sometimes the loudest person in the room is the one who spent years being unheard. And sometimes, what looks like ego is actually just an exhausted heart asking: Am I enough yet? What about now?

Who is James? Someone still trying to earn the attention he should have received freely as a child. Someone who needs to learn that his worth isn’t in his wins. But first, someone needs to see past the performance.