Pride is tough. You go to high school, and its 'pride,'

“Pride is tough. You go to high school, and it’s ‘pride,’ ‘courage;’ it’s all these types of words that we use to motivate us. I don’t think there’s anywhere in the Scriptures through the saints’ lives where pride was ever a positive characteristic of anybody.” — Thus spoke Troy Polamalu, the humble warrior of the gridiron, a man whose quiet strength and faith shone brighter than any trophy or fame. In these words, he offers not just reflection, but warning — a reminder that what the world praises as strength may, in truth, be the seed of destruction. His insight is ancient as the Scriptures, yet ever new: that pride, though disguised as courage or confidence, is a shadow that darkens the soul, while true greatness is born from humility.

In the modern age, we are taught to celebrate ourselves — to stand tall, to proclaim our victories, to wear pride as armor. In schools, in sports, in society, we are told that pride is power, that it drives achievement and fuels ambition. And yet, as Polamalu reminds us, nowhere in the sacred lives of the saints do we find pride exalted as a virtue. The saints, the martyrs, the prophets — they were men and women of courage, yes, but their courage was born not from pride, but from surrender. Their strength came not from self-exaltation, but from obedience to something higher — to God, to truth, to love. Pride, in contrast, is the turning inward of the heart, the belief that one’s own will is supreme. And it is this very belief that has toppled kingdoms and shattered souls since the dawn of man.

The ancients knew well the danger of pride. In the myth of Icarus, the young man so intoxicated by his own daring that he flew too close to the sun, pride melted the wax of his wings and cast him down into the sea. The Greeks called it hubris — the arrogance that defies the gods. In the Scriptures, the same story is told in another form: Lucifer, the most radiant of angels, who fell from heaven not for lack of beauty or power, but for the sin of pride. “I will ascend above the stars of God,” he said, and in that single thought — the thought of equality with the divine — his light became darkness. Thus, from the highest being came the lowest fall. Pride is not strength; it is blindness — the refusal to see that all gifts come from beyond oneself.

Polamalu, though a warrior on the field, understood this with a saint’s clarity. His hair flowed like a lion’s mane, his body struck with force and precision, yet his spirit was gentle and devout. He played not for glory, but for gratitude. While others raised their hands in triumph, he bowed his head in prayer. He had tasted fame and victory, yet he called pride “tough” — not because it was strong, but because it was subtle, creeping into the soul under the guise of righteousness. Even virtues, when twisted by pride, become vices. Courage without humility becomes recklessness; confidence without gratitude becomes arrogance. The man who forgets this loses sight of who he truly is — a vessel of grace, not its source.

We see this lesson written again and again across history. Consider King Nebuchadnezzar, ruler of Babylon, who once gazed upon his city and declared, “Is not this great Babylon, which I have built by my mighty power?” And in that moment, his kingdom was taken from him, his mind clouded, his crown lost. For seven years he lived like a beast, eating grass, until at last he lifted his eyes to heaven and acknowledged the true source of all power. Only then was his reason — and his reign — restored. Such is the way of pride: it elevates for a moment, only to bring about a greater fall. But humility — humility is the foundation that endures.

Polamalu’s wisdom draws deeply from the Christian tradition, which holds that humility is the mother of all virtues. In the lives of the saints, humility was not weakness, but strength purified by faith. Saint Francis of Assisi cast aside riches and fame to embrace poverty and service, finding in the ashes of pride a joy greater than gold. Saint Teresa of Ávila wrote that humility is “walking in truth” — seeing oneself neither as higher nor lower than one is, but as one entirely dependent on the grace of God. The proud build towers that crumble; the humble plant seeds that bloom eternally.

The lesson, then, is this: beware the false glory of pride. The world may praise it, but heaven does not. Seek not to be exalted, but to be grounded in truth. Let your courage be born of love, not ego; your confidence, of faith, not vanity. Remember that pride isolates, while humility connects — for pride says, “I am enough,” but humility says, “We are one.” If you find success, bow in gratitude; if you stumble, rise in grace. True strength lies not in standing above others, but in standing with them — in knowing that all greatness is a gift, and that the heart that kneels is stronger than the one that boasts.

So remember, my child: pride hardens the heart, but humility opens it to heaven. Do not mistake noise for power or applause for worth. Walk gently, as the saints walked — strong in faith, steady in virtue, and free from the shadow of self. For in the end, the proud build monuments to themselves that time will destroy, but the humble build lives that eternity will remember.