Photo: British monarch, King Charles
There was once a quiet evening, just me and my mum, talking and reflecting on a whole lot. I had written a poem, something from our earlier conversation, and I read it to her. When I was done, she looked at me and said:
“You can be king, if you have the heart to take it… But you must do what kings do.”
She said it with no drama. No long speech. Just those words. But they sank. And stayed.
I did not ask her to explain. Maybe I felt I understood, or maybe I was not ready to hear more. Either way, she is no longer here to clarify, and so her words remain, heavy with mystery, echoing across my choices like a challenge I never quite stop hearing.
“You can be king…” That was an unveiling. A naming. She saw something in me, something not yet loud, but deeply present. “…if you have the heart to take it.” Not the brain. Not the muscle. Not the gift of persuasion. The heart.
And that is what I keep circling back to. Because what do kings really do with their hearts?
I have wrestled with that question over the years.
Not kings by title. Not royalty adorned with velvet and surrounded by cameras. I mean the kind of kingship that is forged in character. The ones who quietly carry weight. The ones who are exhausted but show up anyway. The ones who do the hard thing, the right thing, the unseen thing, because they must.
Kings hold tension. They create safety. They give structure to chaos. And often, they are misunderstood. But they serve a vision larger than themselves.
And I see now that my mother was not simply calling me to rise, she was also cautioning me. That this kind of life would cost. That intention alone would not be enough. That I would have to learn the ways of kings, not just claim the name.
And in many ways, I have seen that tension in how I live.
I am constantly looking for the best in everyone and in every situation. It sounds noble, but it wears. I give too much of myself. I stretch to make space for what may not even be mine to hold. I try to make every outcome good for everyone, often at my own expense. It slows me down. It makes my decisions heavy. I do not overthink because I am indecisive. I overthink because I care. Deeply.
But kings cannot afford to drown in care.
So I have been learning. Learning to let go. Learning that clarity is kinder than comfort. That not every “no” is a failure, and not every “yes” is a kindness. That walking in purpose sometimes means walking alone.
I am not beginning to leave things behind. I have broken hearts, including mine. But I am still walking. And I am doing so more intentionally now – heart first.
Because she told me I could be king. But more than that, she told me to do what kings do.
And I am beginning to understand what that means.
