5 things you can do to get rid of yours

I cautiously approached a table saw with dirty, plastic safety goggles wrapped tightly around my sweaty, pimply face. I could barely see.

Welcome to Woodworking, a required class for boys to learn how to make stuff with power tools. Girls took Home Economics to master the art of the perfect pot roast.

Even back then in high school, I felt far more capable with a pen in my hand than a hammer. To pass this course, I had to pay homage to a powerful machine with a whirring circular blade that could slice through wood and fingers.

I had to make something practical from wood.

Savior complex

I created a triple-decker Trophy case, the perfect gift for someone like me who erroneously believed the measure of a man was the trophies he earned. My homemade trophy case looked pretty decent, if I do say so myself, a bedroom wall accessory for an insecure teenager looking for pseudo signs of external validation.

As author John Eldredge points out, every boy and man has a need to prove I have what it takes. Problem back then: I didn’t know what “it” was.

A savior complex fueled my persona problem. As I have written before, I was a son who played a classic role in a dysfunctional family, thinking he had to prove his heroic worth through achievements, removing the stain and shame of my father’s alcoholism.

When I felt insecure (most of the time) I glanced at my trophy case hanging there on the wall and saw tangible evidence that I was on the my path to self actualization. becoming a legend in my own mind. I’m not a neuroscientist by any means, but I have since learned a few things about how the human brain works. Those shiny trophies and medals released hits of dopamine, the pleasure chemical.

Clark Kent

My favorites were the dorky trophies I won in debate, considered a “sport” you could letter in at my school. They featured a chiseled figure standing on a pedestal, looking like Clark Kent in a three-piece suit, arm extended in a confident persuasive gesture.

This is where it gets embarrassing. When I went off to college, I took my homemade security blanket of wood, glue and metal and hung it on the wall of my freshman dorm room.

In my fantasy world, cute girls would come to my room, look at the wall and be so impressed they almost swooned.

“Oh my gosh, you won the first affirmative best speaker trophy at the Valley District varsity debate tournament! I just knew you were smart. Handsome, too.”

The reality proved different: No girls came to my room, no one cared about my trophy case, no one even noticed, not even my roommate, a track star on scholarship whose trophies could fill seven cases.

He was a legend. I was a legend in my own mind.

Trophies on Facebook

Years later, I found and trashed my trophy case because I had better places to showcase my achievements: the bookshelves in my two offices, one at work, the other at home.

I went digital with my trophies, beautifully presenting my list of accomplishments and professional awards on LinkedIn.

I almost forgot to mention Facebook, my photographic trophy case for friends and friends of friends to know I have a trophy wife (true), trophy kids and the latest addition, a trophy grandson.

Each “like” from an impressed universe gives me a dopamine hit.

Don’t get me wrong. Achievements are good. Trophies aren’t bad. But finding my identity in collecting trophies and telling the world about them is the trap.

Sometimes I have to say the maxim out loud, like a mantra:

“I’m a human being, not a human doing.”

“I AM a human being, NOT a human doing.”

The first sentence in Rick Warren’s bestselling book, “A Purpose Driven Life,” is this:

“It’s not about you!”

My trophy cases are mostly about me.

Temples to our self-worth

This hit me when I visited a friend at his powerful workplace. He has a prestigious job. He invited me there, but I felt like an inconvenience as I waited 40 minutes outside his office.

When his assistant finally ushered me in I was taken aback by the temple of self aggrandizement he had constructed featuring photo after photo of himself with famous people in famous places accomplishing famous things.

You could feel the striving: Look at me! I’m important.

But my friend was so distracted he couldn’t look me in the eye. I felt diminished, and a little nauseated.

Then it hit me. In my own way, I’m doing the same thing with my trophies.

Impressing others

I couldn’t help but contrast my friend with my pastor, an accomplished leader and author with a doctorate from an Ivy League school, presiding over a large church. Some of his long-time friends are among the most important people in Washington, a city of self-importance.

But he never drops names. He doesn’t flaunt photos. He certainly doesn’t require people to call him “The Reverend” or, heaven forbid, “Doctor” as some ministers do after they are awarded an honorary degree as a Ph.D.

When you are with my pastor, even if it’s just a minute, he looks you in the eye and you feel like you are the only person in his universe. He is present with no need to impress, an inspiring example of the instruction in Philippians 2:3 , which says “Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves.” (New Living Translation)

I understand you sometimes have to “toot your own horn” in today’s world. As I tell my sons, we all have a personal brand, whether we realize it or not.

But can you somehow market yourself with more modestly, taking down your trophy cases?

I think so. Five things I’ve done:

• I removed the trophies from all my bookshelves.
• I toned down the language of self-actualization on LinkedIn.
• I don’t post photos on Facebook if my motivation is more to impress than share.
• I stopped dropping names to show I know important people.
• I intentionally introduce myself to others for who I am relationally (husband, father, friend etc.) instead of what I do professionally (job title, industry, etc.).
• I don’t begin sentences with “I.” Oops. Scratch that.

The result? I’m feeling more comfortable in my own imperfect shoes and people need less Pepto-Bismol dealing with me.

So what do you do with your trophies once you trash that trophy case?

I just couldn’t throw Clark Kent in the recycling bin. I put my trophies in a cardboard box I store under my bed, where no one can see them and I can’t feel them.

Why I trashed my precious trophy case was originally published in The Ascent on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.