On Inferiority, Reflection, and the Courage to Create
Moving through a quiet pain I couldn’t describe
For the last six months, I’ve had a steady ritual.
Most mornings, I wake between 5:30 and 6:30, depending on how many times I hit snooze. I stretch with a bit of yoga, then sit in meditation. Not long—just enough to notice the stress pulling at me, the anxiety about work that urges me to dive into emails. And after I sit with it, I read.
It’s become sacred. Ten pages a day, almost a book every two weeks. Not to memorize. Not to highlight endlessly. But to find something that resonates—something that whispers, this applies to you. And from that whisper, I reflect.
Lately, that reflection has gotten faster. I’ve been journaling with the help of AI. It’s like having a mirror that talks back—not to tell me what to think, but to help me think clearer, faster, deeper. For a while, I used to write with my left hand just to slow myself down, to be present with each letter. But now, it’s different. I’m still present—but with velocity. The speed at which I’m absorbing, processing, and hopefully contributing to others—it’s increasing.
The Complexes We Carry
This morning’s insight came from Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl.
Frankl writes about the inferiority and superiority complexes that developed inside the concentration camps—within both prisoners and guards. He reflects on what happens when everything is taken from you: joy, autonomy, creative freedom. How the human spirit suffers not only from physical deprivation but from the stripping away of agency—the ability to create, to shape your world, to act.
And it clicked.
Recently, I felt an inferiority complex take root in me.
At work, someone pulled the “tenure card” to override my judgment. They didn't argue with data or engage with ideas—they simply asserted their authority based on years. And for weeks, I wrestled with it. I began to question: Am I good enough? Do I have the right to speak up?
I went quiet. I stopped creating. I stopped contributing like I normally do. I let the current carry me because I didn’t feel strong enough to swim against it.
It wasn’t until a conversation with my brother that I realized how damaging that dynamic was. He reminded me: tenure isn’t a trump card—it’s not an excuse to shut down collaboration or override someone else’s insight. And later, reading Frankl, I saw the pattern even more clearly.
Naming It Is the First Step Out
That’s the power of reflection: it gives you language. It gives you the courage to name what’s happening inside you, even when no one else sees it. Even when it’s subtle, quiet, or wearing a friendly face.
This colleague of mine? They’re not overtly cruel. But enough interactions built up—a thousand small invalidations—and suddenly I was doubting myself, losing energy, shutting down.
Frankl’s insight helped me see that I’d internalized something toxic. Like the prisoners who began to believe they were powerless, I had temporarily forgotten that I could choose again. That I could act.
You don’t have to stay in a situation that makes you small. Even if it’s comfortable. Even if it’s polite. Even if everyone else says it’s fine.
You can change in the next second.
Final Thought
I don’t know what you’re going through right now. But if something feels off—if a relationship, a role, or a routine is draining your spirit—pause. Reflect. Name it.
Maybe you’ve stopped creating. Maybe you’ve become passive in your own life. That doesn’t make you weak. It just means you’re human. But you get to begin again.
As long as you’re reflecting, you’re growing.
As long as you’re aware, you’re free.
Trust yourself.
Trust your gut.
You already know what to do.