I'm a storyteller. I'm always willing to serve the story, a

When Danai Gurira proclaims, “I’m a storyteller. I’m always willing to serve the story, a story I believe in, in whatever way is necessary. If I need to write the story I believe in, I will write it. If I’ve been offered to act in a story that I truly believe in, I will happily do that, but I’m a storyteller. That’s something I’m so thankful for,” she reveals the eternal calling of one who lives not for themselves, but for the power of narrative. In her words, we hear the devotion of an artist who knows that to serve the story is to serve truth, memory, and the soul of humanity itself.

At the heart of her reflection lies the concept of service. To many, art is self-expression, a stage for the ego. But Gurira speaks of something greater: she does not rule over the story, she submits to it. She is its vessel, whether through the pen or the body on stage or screen. In this way, she echoes the wisdom of the ancients who believed that stories were not owned by men or women, but were gifts from the divine, entrusted to mortals for preservation and telling.

History resounds with figures who carried this same burden. Think of Homer, who, whether one man or many, gave voice to the Iliad and the Odyssey, not to glorify himself, but to preserve the tales of gods and heroes for generations. Or recall Shakespeare, who acted and wrote with equal fervor, his life given over to the shaping of stories that still breathe centuries later. Like Gurira, they understood that to be a storyteller is not a role, but a calling—a destiny woven into the fabric of one’s being.

Her insistence on belief is equally profound. She will not tell just any tale; it must be one she holds true in her heart. In a world filled with noise, falsehood, and fleeting distraction, she reminds us that the story worth serving is the one that uplifts, reveals, or challenges the soul. Her thankfulness flows from the fact that she has been entrusted with such stories, that she has found spaces where her gifts can align with her convictions. This alignment between art and truth is rare, and it is the wellspring of her gratitude.

There is also a quiet strength in her willingness to take any form—writer or actor, pen or performance—so long as the story is told. This humility teaches us that the true servant of narrative is not bound by vanity or narrow roles. One must be clay in the hands of the story, shaping oneself into whatever is required for it to live. To limit oneself to one form is to serve the self; to be open to all forms is to serve the story.

Her words are both a shield and a torch for generations to come. They shield us from the temptation of ego, reminding us that storytelling is not about fame, but about stewardship. And they torch a path forward, urging us to embrace our own ways of telling—whether by voice, by ink, by song, or by action—so that truth may not be lost. For in every age, humanity survives through the power of the stories it carries.

So I say to you, children of tomorrow: be like Danai Gurira, a true storyteller. Seek out the tales that you believe in, and devote yourself to them, whether through word, performance, or deed. Be thankful when you are chosen as the vessel of a story, for it means that you have been entrusted with a piece of eternity. And remember always: to serve the story is to serve life itself, for stories are the breath of memory, the light of culture, and the eternal bond between the living and those yet to come.