“My dad.”
Everyone giggled. Some smirked.
The teacher shook her head: “No. A role model must inspire others.”
I was downcast, my dad didn't meet the criteria.
Decades later, things started to click.
What you admire isn’t the person. It’s the narrative, the glamour.
Not genuineness.
Like politicians, like gurus who preach virtue but conceal vice.
We see the myth, not the mess underneath.
And when they fall? The betrayal feels personal, because you defended an image, not a person.
People fade. Patterns don’t.
So, what if, instead of role models, you admired moments?
A stranger’s dedication.
A competitor’s grace under stress.
A child’s innocent curiosity.
Grab the lesson. Let go of the legend.
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