Containment: Learning When to Burn
[Series in check]
Written on my Birthday
It was cold that day. The kind of cold that makes you prepare without realizing you’re preparing.
I had gloves. Something to cover my ears. I don’t usually think that far ahead, which is how I knew this day mattered before I ever arrived. The air was crisp and dry, sharp enough to wake the body up. Everything outside was brown, stripped back, dormant. Still nature, just honest about the season it was in.
I walked into the George Washington Carver Museum first. Warmth returned to my fingers, but the stillness stayed. The classroom stopped me. They had recreated it carefully. Wooden floors. Simple desks. Rules posted clearly, without apology.
Be punctual.
I laughed and pointed at it. Half joke. Half recognition.
I’ve lived most of my life testing rules.
One of the exhibits described Missouri the way it has always been: lawless and restless. A border state. Unsettled. Torn between sides. I smiled again. Not because it was funny, but because it felt familiar. Like reading a personality trait instead of a historical fact.
Then we walked the trail.
Cold again. Brisk. Quiet. The kind of cold that sharpens your thoughts. The ground was bare, brown, open. No performance. No softness. Just truth. The cabin sat there waiting, and when I stepped inside, the smell hit me first. Old wood. Time. Creaky floors. A place that had held a lot and learned how to keep it.
That’s when the pieces came together.
I’ve lived on both sides of authority. For the last five years, I helped build businesses and corporations. I was the one with power. The decision-maker. The voice that didn’t need permission. And now, I’m back working in public. Inside systems where I am not the authority.
That shift will humble you fast.
Because suddenly you see it.
Oh. I do have to be checked here.
Not because I’m wrong. But because this isn’t my frame. This isn’t where my power lives.
Power isn’t just something you have. It’s something you hold within context. It depends on where you are, what role you’re in, and what responsibility comes with the position you occupy.
Rules aren’t always about control. Sometimes they’re about containment.
“Remain seated.”
“Do not speak out of turn.”
On the surface, they sound restrictive. Underneath, they’re about regulation. Timing. Discernment. Understanding that not every impulse needs immediate expression.
Fire doesn’t become weaker when it’s contained.
It becomes usable.
The Phoenix isn’t asked to stop burning.
It’s asked to learn when.
George Washington Carver was born into chaos. Slavery. Loss. A world that gave him no authority, no safety, no voice. History doesn’t clean that part up for us. It just tells us the conditions were brutal.
He had nothing.
No leverage.
No control.
No protection.
And still, he chose good.
Not loud power. Not destructive power. Disciplined power. A man who learned how to govern himself long before the world ever offered him freedom.
That’s the balance we keep missing.
When a fire is left running wild, it results in destruction.
Likewise, when power is unchecked, it destroys.
When it’s suppressed, it rots.
But when it’s contained, it transforms.
Containment isn’t punishment. It’s stewardship.
Missouri has always lived in that tension. Lawless and restless. A place caught between control and chaos. Between who it was and who it was becoming. Walking that trail, standing in that creaky cabin, it felt like stepping into that lesson physically.
I am powerful. I know that. I also know what happens when fire isn’t governed. I’ve seen the damage it can do.
This season of my life isn’t about burning less.
It’s about burning on purpose.
Knowing when to speak and when to wait. When to lead and when to listen. When power needs expression and when it needs restraint.
Fire doesn’t lose its strength when it’s governed.
It becomes sustainable. Transformative.
Missouri has been teaching that lesson for a long time.
So has life.
Here is to 34. Another year, another level up.
Still burning. 🐦🔥
Just wiser about it.
Xoxo,
Julz
