Rising Above the Fray

When I was about 11 years old, I was going through a rough time. I was being bullied regularly. Like most kids who go through that, I felt angry, ashamed, and alone. I didn’t know how to handle it. And while my father tried to teach me to “turn the other cheek,” that felt impossible. I didn’t want to walk away. I wanted to fight back. I wanted to make it stop.

Then one morning, somewhere between sleep and waking, I heard something I’ll never forget.

“Thou shalt not fight.”

It wasn’t a passing thought. It wasn’t a feeling. It was a voice—loud, clear, and unmistakable. So vivid I jumped out of bed and ran into my parents’ room, trying to explain what had just happened.

I can only imagine they chalked it up to a dream. And maybe I did too, for a while. What else could an 11-year-old think? But I couldn’t shake it. The words stayed with me. I didn’t understand them, and for years, I didn’t try to.

I joined the military. I went to war. I fought in real combat. And for a long time, I believed that message had nothing to do with me.

But now, at this point in my life, I’m starting to think it did. Just not in the way I expected.

Because today, the fight isn’t about fists or weapons. It’s a war of narratives, mockery, slander, and pressure. It’s people misrepresenting you, twisting your words, gaslighting, and daring you to strike back so they can say, “See? Look who you really are.”

And if you’re not careful, you get pulled in. You burn energy responding to people who never wanted the truth in the first place. You lose clarity. You lose focus. You lose yourself in the noise.

A few days ago, I came across a short video by Patrick Bet-David, and it hit me like that voice did years ago. He said:

“The only bird that dares to attack an eagle is a crow, but the eagle never fights back. Here’s why: the crow is the only bird bold enough to sit on the eagle’s back and peck its neck. Relentless and annoying, but the eagle stays calm. The eagle doesn’t flap, doesn’t fight, doesn’t waste energy. It does one thing—it rises. The higher the eagle soars, the thinner the air becomes. The crow? It can’t handle that altitude. Eventually, the crow gasps, loses strength, and falls off. Not because the eagle attacked, but because the eagle ascended. Let the crows talk. Let them peck. You don’t have to respond. Just keep going higher. They can’t follow you forever. Your growth will suffocate their noise. So don’t engage—elevate.”

That’s the lesson.

Not everything deserves your reaction. Not every attack needs an answer. Some people are trying to provoke you, not because they’re right, but because they can’t stand that you won’t sink to their level.

You don’t need to defend your character to those committed to misunderstanding it. You don’t need to explain yourself to those who’ve already decided what they want to believe. Your life, your work, and your quiet consistency will speak louder than your rebuttals ever could.

And in times like these, when the pressure is constant and the attacks are personal, choosing not to fight can be harder than fighting ever was.

But there’s strength in stillness. There’s clarity in restraint. And sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is exactly what the eagle does: rise.

You don’t need to win every argument. You don’t need to silence every critic. Just keep going higher. Focus on what matters. Lead with discipline. Stay above the fray.

The air gets thinner up here for a reason.

Have you experienced a moment where walking away was harder than speaking out? I’d like to hear from you.