Envy killed the chickens. Or so my Bedouin mother-in-law believed.
There once was a jealous neighbor who came for a visit. Commenting on the large flock of hens pecking away in the courtyard, forgetting to invoke God’s blessing on such wealth, she drew the Evil Eye’s focus—likely unintentionally. The very next day, all forty birds lay talons up, leaving my mother-in-law crying her eyes out.
When I lived in Iran, the Evil Eye was a force to be reckoned with. Esfand seeds were burned on a special metal grate after guests left a home. Turquoise jewelry was worn for protection. Salt was placed in children’s pockets to serve as a talisman. If a mother had many healthy sons, she dressed the youngest as girls. All to deflect the covetous attention of strangers.
Envy, in the form of the Evil Eye, was Kryptonite. Cross its path, and luck, talent, success would be sucked away. Better to disguise these attributes, or hide them, to keep them yours. Iranian society, as a whole, was set up to keep beauty and wealth far from prying eyes.
In many ways, I operated as if I too believed that envy could do me in.
I worried that I would lose what was valuable to me if I allowed others to notice my good fortune. I taught my children to blend with a crowd, to avoid being singled out. I eschewed all signs of conspicuous consumption. I worked hard at looking like everybody else.
Worse, I downplayed my achievements. Or kept them to myself entirely.
I was most comfortable on a level playing field, with all that was precious tucked away.
I was talking to my mother the other day, and I finally understood why shining in any way makes me nervous. She was busy describing the latest sins of a tall, glamorous woman she works with in Medora, North Dakota. Jealous of her appearance, my round, stubby mother was, once again, raking her name over the coals.
The message being: have what I want, and I’ll hate you til the end of time.
This is what I absorbed growing up. This is the water I swam in.
And I’ve since discovered I’m not alone. I see this pattern everywhere—in the authors I work with who have extraordinary expertise but can’t bring themselves to claim it. In professionals who’ve spent decades mastering their craft but cringe at the thought of being visible. In people who have hard-won wisdom the world desperately needs but who keep it locked away because some part of them believes that standing out is dangerous.
We hide our light. We couch our accomplishments in self-deprecating humor. We add qualifiers to every statement of competence. We say things like “I’m no expert, but…” when we absolutely are experts. We let years pass without sharing what we know because we’re terrified someone might resent us for having figured something out.
What’s behind all this hiding?
Mostly, it’s that staying small feels safer than being seen. Visibility opens us to criticism, judgment, and yes, envy. Playing small keeps us protected from all that. We tell ourselves we’re being humble, or realistic, or appropriately modest. But really, we’re just scared.
And underneath that fear? A quiet doubt about whether we’re worthy of taking up space at all. Whether our ideas matter enough to share. Whether we’ve earned the right to claim what we know. This isn’t about not liking ourselves—most of us do just fine on that front. It’s subtler than that. It’s a nagging question about whether we deserve to be seen.
For years I worried that if I had it all—if I were smart, beautiful, fit, successful, talented—no one would like me. Including my own mother. This fear played out in the form of self-sabotage. If too many good things clicked into place, I’d put on twenty pounds. Or quit my job. Or throw my writing in a closet.
It took years of digging into my limiting beliefs to come face to face with this deeply buried childhood fear: I will only be liked if I remain unremarkable and average.
What a devastating operating system to run your life on.
There’s a Marianne Williamson quote that’s been shared so many times it borders on cliché. But clichés become clichés because they’re true, and this one still stops me cold:
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.
Here’s what I’ve learned: lots of people possess remarkable gifts and continue to live full, connected lives. The people I admire most aren’t the ones who’ve made themselves small. They’re the ones who shine unapologetically—and in doing so, make space for everyone around them to shine too.
The chicken killers of this world? They’ll always exist. But their power over us is a choice we make.
I choose to celebrate the accomplishments and gifts of others AND my own. I choose to shine so that you can, too. I say good riddance to the Evil Eye.
Don’t be a chicken killer. There’s more than enough good to go around.
How does this play out in your life, if at all?
