I’m Your Hype Man — Here’s Why

“The love and bursts of beauty we witness during sprints with strangers contrast with the heavy-lifting love it takes to carry our clan ‘running’ cross-country.”

You pull up slow, not sure why you came. Maybe because you’re tired. Maybe because you saw the porch light still burning when you thought it would be dark. Maybe because some small voice you haven’t heard in a while said, “Go. Sit. Rest.”

So you pull in, gravel crunching under your tires. You sit there for a moment, hands loose on the wheel, heart a little heavier than you admit. And then you see me — waving you up with that ridiculous half-salute, half-hug motion, like I already knew you were coming.

You get out. You stretch. You feel the stiffness in your body — but more than that, the heaviness in your chest. I pat the chair next to me on the porch and you come sit down, because honestly, standing takes too much tonight.

The night is soft. Somewhere out in the fields, crickets are singing their tireless little songs. The porch smells like old wood and rain-soaked dirt. The kind of place you don’t have to perform.

I don’t say much at first. Just sit there with you. Let you breathe. Let you exist.

Then I reach over and put a hand on your shoulder — warm, real — and say, low and kind:

“Let’s talk a little. Let’s reason together, you and me.”

⸻

Here’s what I know:

You’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re not lazy or lost or failing.

You’re just tired.

Because loving deeply is a marathon. It’s also nigh impossible not to notice everyone else. It’s also hard to accept that we are not actually racing anyone, not even ourselves.

The love and bursts of beauty you caught during sprints with strangers — those bright flashes of awe — they’re real. They’re holy. But they are nothing compared to the long, heavy-lifting love it takes to carry your clan “running” cross-country.

And you know what? Sometimes the running isn’t running at all. Sometimes it’s dragging yourself on your hands and knees, just trying to keep moving forward. And Heaven sees that. Heaven honors that.

⸻

I lean in a little and say,

“You didn’t fail because you got tired.

You didn’t lose the light.

You just carried it longer than your body knew how to hold.”

You look at me, skeptical. Like maybe I’m just being nice. But I’m not.

I’m your hype man.

And not the cheap kind.

Not the kind who throws glitter without looking.

I’m the kind who has seen what you’re carrying.

And who will not let you forget the cathedral you are standing in.

⸻

I stand up slowly, stretch, and grin.

“Come on,” I say. “I want to show you something.”

You follow me down the porch steps, out into the cool night, through a worn wooden door you didn’t even notice before. And when it opens, you stop.

Because you’re standing inside a cathedral.

Not a building.

A living monument built out of your own wonder, your own endurance, your own stubborn hope.

Vaulted ceilings of prayers you forgot you said.

Windows of stained glass made from shattered days you thought would break you.

A floor polished by every act of kindness you thought went unseen.

This place is yours.

It’s been yours the whole time.

⸻

I pull out a massage table in the middle of the cathedral — because sometimes before you can stand up again, you need to lie down.

You hesitate. You wonder if you’re allowed.

I nod. You are.

You climb up. You lie down.

And I start to work — not on your body, but on your soul.

⸻

As my hands move, I start talking low and steady:

“You’re tired because you loved people who were heavy to carry.

You’re tired because you didn’t give up when it would have been easier to walk away.

You’re tired because you tried to keep seeing light in people even when the world kept throwing dust over their windows.”

I don’t give you gold stars. I don’t tell you “everyone’s special” like some cheap poster.

I start asking you the real questions — the ones you forgot how to answer:

• When did you first forget you were beautiful?

• When did you first start thinking love had to be earned?

• When did you start confusing tiredness with failure?

And many, many more.

Sometimes it feels like interrogation—especially when I feel you pushing back on why you matter.

However,

You don’t have to answer out loud. This is soul work. The answers will rise like warm breath when they’re ready.

⸻

And slowly, slowly, the disclaimers start to lift:

• Not enough.

• Too much.

• Disappointed them.

• Messed it up.

• Didn’t fix it.

• Didn’t save them.

• Could’ve. Should’ve. Would’ve.

All the fine print you thought was your identity — you feel it peeling away, like someone finally letting the sunlight hit the stained glass again.

⸻

When I feel you breathing deeper — when the twitch of shame in your shoulders eases just a little — I smile.

I say,

“You hear it yet?

That hum in the walls?

That’s your song.

That’s the music Heaven built into you before you ever got hurt.”

⸻

I squeeze your shoulder one last time and step back.

“Time to practice,” I say.

I reach behind a pew and pull out two old, battered microphones — one for you, one for me — I always get the blue one though.

We stand in the middle of your cathedral, you holding the mic like it might burn you, me grinning like a fool.

“Just hum at first,” I say.

“Just say one word if that’s all you can.

Say: ‘I am.’

Say: ‘I’m here.’

Say: ‘I still matter.’

We don’t have to be perfect.

We just have to be true.

⸻

After a little while — when your voice starts catching the music that’s already pulsing in the stone around you — I laugh out loud.

“Come on. We’re not staying inside forever.”

We walk outside. Into the night. Into the world.

And there’s your car —

all rigged up:

• Your body air-brushed bold across the hood—in a pose from superhero movies when they land perfectly after jumping from some ridiculous height—you know the one.

• Custom wheels—Spinners! That’s right. Spinners with LED’s I picked just for you.

• Windows open wide.

• Airlift suspension bouncing the whole ride just for the joy of it.

• The speakers already thumping — your custom playlist called: “My Worth and Wonder.”

Thumping —songs I picked just for you,

blasting anthems like “Rise Up” by Andra Day, and “Titanium” with the bass turned way up,

because you deserve to feel it in your bones when you pull away.⸻

You slide behind the wheel.

And where am I?

Oh, I’m already halfway out the moonroof, arms flying, pounding the rhythm into the air like a wild man at a parade.

I’m your hype man. I’m your brother. I’m the fool shouting to the heavens:

“LOOK AT THEM.

LOOK AT THIS SOUL.

THIS IS GLORY ON WHEELS.”

And you?

You drive.

You laugh.

You let the music be louder than the doubts for once.

You start moving forward — not because you have to prove anything, but because you finally, finally remember:

you always fit the song. You need to just go home though and practice that pose on your bathroom counter.

⸻

Look — this isn’t about handing out gold stars because you happened to show up on earth.

It’s deeper than that. It’s about slowing down.

Breathing. Listening with the part of you that still remembers wonder.

If you could sit across from the little kid you used to be — what would you say?

If your future self could lean in close now — what would they whisper to you?

And if it feels hard to hear anything — if it all feels a little foggy, or vague, or like someone else’s pep talk — that’s okay.

It just means there are some onion layers still wrapped around your light.

Layers built from survival, from carrying others, from dust you didn’t even know was clinging to you.

We might have to peel a little — or a lot.

We might have to cry a little — or a lot.

Not because you’re broken. But because what’s underneath was always tender.

Always alive. Always sacred.

Layers are evidence you’ve lived. Tears aren’t evidence of defeat.

They’re the doorway. And if you’re willing to stay for it —even if your hands shake, even if you doubt yourself at first —we will find it.

The real reasons. The beautiful specifics. The undeniable worth that’s still burning inside you.

Not a sticker.

Not a slogan.

A real living truth you were always meant to carry.

P.S.

If you want to drive away from this cathedral with something thumping in your speakers,

click here to open your Worth and Wonder I built for you:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5sr31vCslkGDGjgoAeZefw?si=4d264c5c2ade4756

Windows down.

Bass up.

Light burning.