The scene: an elementary schoolyard.
Morning recess. My younger sister ran to me, tears in her eyes.
“Jamal, they’re calling me names. Telling me to go back to where I came from.”
I wiped her tears, took her hand, looked at her, and simply said:
“Let them,” as we walked away.
The scene: a high school cafeteria.
I sat at a long lunch table with a poutine and a cold Pepsi.
Two gossipy classmates leaned in laughing while sharing “concern.”
“Jamal, people are calling you a nerd, a prude, a square. You are a boring loner. You don’t socialize, smoke, drink, date, or ever come to any parties. All you do is study. Everyone is laughing at you behind your back.”
I smiled, took one last sip of my drink.
“Let them.”
The scene: the university campus.
One afternoon, on my way to class, a well intentioned friend caught up to me.
“Jamal, be careful. People are watching you. You don’t pick sides, you’re too open and friendly with everyone. They’re questioning your motives.” She cautioned.
“Let them,” and carried on to class, aware, undeterred.
The scene: my first job out of university.
A call center agent for a monopoly telco, speaking up in rooms where I was the youngest by a decade.
“Jamal, stay quiet. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t draw attention. They may fire you.”
“Let them,” and spoke anyway.
What I didn’t know then:
I was learning the most vital leadership skill.
To stay steady when others want you to sway.
The scene: boardrooms, years later.
Walking into rooms thick with silence and skepticism, leading work only a few believed could succeed.
“Jamal, people are talking. You’re too polished. You’re not polished enough. You’re too tactical. You’re too strategic. Some say you’re too collaborative. Others, too direct. Some say you won’t survive. Others are working to ensure you fail.”
I smiled, recognizing an old familiar pattern.
“Let them.” And I pressed forward with the work.
Decades of “let them” taught me something enduring: doubt reveals more about the doubter than the doer. Leadership means standing firm when others want you to bend. Being yourself lasts longer than being liked.
Every one of the so-called “lost cause” projects crossed the finish line to serve millions today.
So when they say you cannot, when they question your methods, when they predict your failure, let them.
Because the most powerful response is never defense.
It is proof. It is results.
So the next time someone chooses to judge, doubt, or deny you, let your response be the same two words that carried me from playgrounds to boardrooms:
𝗟𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺.
What about you, when was your moment to let them?
