Hey you guys! Welcome to my Curtis Tucker Blog and Podcast! I recorded this episode and turned it into a blog post before I watched the latest episode of Survivor. I was blown away by what Cirie Fields said about being on the show after she was just voted off. Her words are almost exactly what this episode is about.
Cirie Fields reflected on her 20-year journey, expressing immense gratitude during her final words on Survivor 50: “Thank you Jeff, for some of the best years of my life. I am forever grateful for what Survivor has done for me. I don’t even have the words to express how grateful and thankful I am for finding out there’s so much more to life than what I knew from sitting on my couch and watching TV.”
Every once in a while, an opportunity comes along that does more than offer the possibility of a new experience or an unexpected turn in life. Sometimes an opportunity makes us stop and look at ourselves differently. It forces us to think about who we are, what we have done, what makes us interesting, and how we would explain ourselves to someone who knows absolutely nothing about us. Recently, I took a shot at something that caught me completely by surprise. It was unusual, intriguing, and far enough outside my normal day-to-day life that I could have easily dismissed it before giving it any serious thought. Instead, I leaned into it. I said yes to the possibility. I allowed myself to wonder, even if just for a little while, what might happen if this unexpected door actually opened.
It didn’t. I didn’t get the thing.
Naturally, there was some disappointment. When you allow yourself to hope for something, even cautiously, it is hard not to feel a little deflated when it does not happen. But now that I have had time to sit with it, I can honestly say I am glad I tried. In fact, the experience gave me something I was not expecting. It made me examine my own life in a way I had not done in quite some time. It made me think about the stories that define me, the qualities that make a person memorable, and why I still want to raise my hand for new experiences at 63 years old.
Most of our days unfold in familiar patterns. We wake up, move through our routines, answer messages, handle work, run errands, take care of our responsibilities, and before we know it, another day has passed. There is comfort in routine, and I certainly have plenty of it in my own life. But every now and then, something appears that interrupts the usual flow. It may be an email, a phone call, a conversation, or some strange invitation that seems to come out of nowhere. It does not guarantee anything. It simply cracks the door open just enough to make you wonder what might be on the other side.
That kind of possibility can be powerful. Even when you try to stay realistic, your imagination starts filling in the blanks. You wonder what the experience would be like. You wonder how you would perform under new circumstances. You think about the conversations it might lead to, the people you might meet, and the way your ordinary life could suddenly take an unexpected turn. There is something energizing about that moment when life feels just a little less predictable than it did the day before. It reminds you that not everything has already been decided, that the future still has room for surprise.
Of course, the moment you let yourself hope, you also make room for disappointment. That is the trade-off. You can protect yourself from being let down by never wanting anything too badly, never reaching too far, never risking the embarrassment of coming up short. But that kind of protection comes at a cost. It can quietly turn into a habit of self-rejection. You start dismissing possibilities before anyone else ever gets the chance. You tell yourself you are too old, too unlikely, too far outside the expected mold. You convince yourself that trying is pointless, and by doing so, you spare yourself the sting of hearing no. But you also deny yourself the chance of hearing yes.
I am glad I did not do that. I am glad I stepped toward the opportunity instead of away from it. Even though it did not work out, I like knowing that I am still the kind of person who will take a swing when something interesting comes along. I like knowing that I have not mentally moved myself to the sidelines. There is a certain kind of internal aging that has nothing to do with birthdays. It happens when curiosity dries up, when risk disappears, when every unusual idea is met with an automatic “probably not.” I do not want to live that way. I want to remain available to life.
One of the most fascinating parts of this recent experience was that it forced me to think about myself from the outside. That is harder than it sounds. Most of us can answer the question, “What do you do?” without much trouble. I can say I run Enid Buzz. I create content. I host podcasts. I write, design, build brands, promote local events, and spend a lot of time turning ideas into actual things. Those are easy answers because they describe activities. They explain how I spend my time and what kinds of work I have chosen to do.
But the question “Who are you?” is very different. What makes you distinct? What parts of your life would matter to someone who had never met you? What stories reveal something real about your personality, your values, your sense of humor, or the way you move through the world? What would cause a stranger to remember you after meeting a dozen other people? Those are not résumé questions. They are identity questions, and they require a deeper kind of reflection.
As I thought about those things, I realized how easy it is to minimize our own lives simply because we have been living them from the inside. To me, building Enid Buzz over the years has become part of my everyday existence. It is what I do. I update, post, create, promote, write, report, answer, schedule, and keep the machine moving. But when I step back from it, I can see that creating a local media brand from scratch, growing it into something thousands of people rely on, and sustaining it for years is not ordinary. It is a story. Working in radio is a story. Interviewing people I once only knew from album covers, concert stages, and television screens is a story. Creating brands and podcasts and artwork and books is a story. Chasing creative ideas into my sixties is a story.
And yet, when it is your own life, you do not always recognize the shape of it. You are too close. The details become familiar. The unusual becomes normal through repetition. The things that might make someone else lean forward and say, “Wait, tell me more about that,” become things you barely think to mention. I suspect most people do this. The woman who spends years caring for an aging parent may not think of herself as exceptionally strong; she simply believes she did what needed to be done. The man who rebuilds his life after a loss may not call himself resilient; he just kept going because there was no other choice. The teacher who changed the course of a child’s life may never know the full impact. The business owner who survives through difficult years may think only of the stress and not of the courage it required.
We underestimate our own stories because they happened to us. We forget that a life does not need to be famous to be meaningful. It does not need to unfold under a spotlight to contain texture, humor, heartbreak, bravery, reinvention, and surprise. Sometimes it takes an outside opportunity to make us pause and take inventory. Not in a boastful way, but in an honest way. To say: I have lived. I have tried. I have built things. I have stumbled into strange situations. I have loved deeply. I have made mistakes. I have created things that would not exist if I had not been here. That realization can be surprisingly powerful.
This whole experience also made me think about what makes a person memorable. Not famous, necessarily. Memorable. Those are not the same thing. Some famous people are not particularly compelling once you move past the spotlight, while some everyday people become unforgettable after a single conversation. I think memorable people tend to have specificity. They are not generic. They reveal themselves through details. Someone who says, “I like music,” could be almost anyone. Someone who says, “The opening of a Boston song can still take me straight back to being a kid in the 1970s,” suddenly becomes more vivid. Someone who says, “I enjoy cooking,” is fine. Someone who says, “I make my grandmother’s noodles every time it rains because that was always her rainy-day meal,” gives you a glimpse into a life.
Specificity gives people texture. It turns facts into personality. Memorable people also tend to contain contrast. They are rarely just one predictable thing. They are the serious businessperson with a collection of old monster toys, the quiet neighbor who used to race motorcycles, the grandmother who loves horror movies, the local media guy who is also writing a time-bending novel about boys on banana seat bikes in 1977. Contrast creates curiosity. It hints that there is more beneath the surface, and that is what makes people interesting.
I also think memorable people are willing to let their enthusiasm show. They are not always loud, but they are present. They reveal what they care about. They are not too cool to admit that something excites them. The older I get, the more I appreciate that quality. I am much more drawn to people who are openly interested in the world than to people who spend their lives trying to appear unaffected by everything. Give me the person who gets excited about a favorite record, an old movie, a local diner, a strange roadside attraction, a sunrise, a vintage toy, or a memory from childhood that still glows in their mind. That person is alive. That person is paying attention. That person is memorable.
Another truth this experience reminded me of is that we still want to be chosen. We may not always admit it, especially as adults, but the desire does not fully disappear. We want someone to point and say, “You. We see something in you.” It begins on playgrounds and in classrooms, but it follows us into adulthood. We want the job, the opportunity, the invitation, the role, the client, the acceptance, the yes. We want to know that, out of all the people who could have been considered, someone noticed something in us.
There is nothing shameful about that. Wanting to be chosen is human. The problem comes when we allow being chosen to become the only measure of our value. It is not. A yes can be affirming, but a no does not erase who you are. Still, pretending not to care is not healthier. Sometimes we do care. Sometimes we let ourselves imagine the possibility. Sometimes we want the thing, and when it does not happen, it stings. That sting does not mean we were foolish. It means we were willing to want something.
There is real vulnerability in wanting something openly enough to pursue it. When you apply, audition, submit, pitch, ask, or otherwise put yourself forward, you are admitting that the outcome matters to you. You are allowing yourself to be seen reaching. That can feel risky because now the answer is out of your hands. It is much safer to stand back, make jokes, and say, “I could have done that if I wanted to,” while never actually doing it. It is much safer to talk yourself out of the opportunity before the opportunity can reject you. But safety is not always the same thing as fulfillment. Sometimes safety is simply fear that has learned to sound practical.
I think there is courage in raising your hand, especially as we get older. Age gives us wisdom, but it can also provide a long list of excuses. We begin telling ourselves that certain experiences are for younger people, that some doors have closed, that we have already had our turn, that there is no point in stepping into a room where we may not seem like the obvious choice. Sometimes those thoughts are realistic. Not every opportunity is right. Not every door should be pushed open. But sometimes we dismiss ourselves far too quickly. We assume we do not belong before anyone else has decided anything at all.
At 63, I know exactly how old I am. I am not trying to pretend I am twenty-five. My body occasionally sends reminder notices just in case I forget. But creatively, emotionally, and mentally, I do not feel finished. In many ways, I feel more like myself now than I did decades ago. I know what I care about. I know what kinds of ideas wake me up. I know that I still enjoy taking a left turn when life offers one. I do not want the second half of life to become a slow narrowing of possibilities. I want expansion in there. I want some surprise. I want to keep saying, “Why not me?” when something fascinating appears on the horizon.
That phrase can sound arrogant if it is used the wrong way, but I do not mean it that way. I mean it as a refusal to automatically exclude yourself from consideration. Why not me? Why not try? Why not enter? Why not begin? Why not step forward and see what happens? The world is full of people who never discover whether they could have done something because they convinced themselves not to attempt it. I would rather collect a few honest disappointments than a lifetime of unresolved question marks.
Not getting this particular thing was not the same as failing. Sometimes an outcome is shaped by timing, chemistry, fit, or decisions made in rooms we will never enter. You can be worthy and still not be chosen. You can be qualified and still not be the one. You can show up sincerely and still walk away without the result you hoped for. That does not mean you misread your own value. It means life did not move in that direction this time.
In my case, the value was not limited to the possibility of being selected. The value was also in what the experience stirred up inside me. It made me take stock of my own story. It made me think carefully about what I find meaningful in my life and what might make me memorable to someone else. It reminded me that I am still willing to put myself in play. It reminded me that I still want to be surprised by life. Those are not small things. Those are worth carrying forward.
I have lived long enough to know that disappointment usually fades faster than regret. You may briefly feel let down when something does not happen. But the things you never attempt can linger for years. The project you never started. The business idea you never tested. The trip you kept postponing. The person you never called. The application you never submitted. The opportunity you ruled yourself out of before anyone else had a chance to answer. Those unfinished possibilities can stay with you because they never reached a real conclusion. They remain suspended in the mind as “what ifs.”
So maybe this is a nudge, for me and maybe for anyone reading this. Take another look at the thing you have quietly talked yourself out of. It may be a creative idea. It may be a professional opportunity. It may be a personal challenge. It may simply be saying yes to something that feels a little uncomfortable because it is unfamiliar. Ask yourself whether you are truly being realistic or whether you are protecting yourself from the vulnerability of trying.
Some opportunities change our circumstances. Others change the way we see ourselves. They remind us that our lives are richer than we may have realized, that our stories have value, and that we are still capable of stepping toward the unknown. Even when we do not get the thing, the act of reaching can wake us up. It can clarify us. It can show us that we are still willing to participate fully in our own lives.
I did not get the thing.
But I am glad I tried.
And maybe, in the end, that is the thing I needed most.
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