The world never roots for the stegosaurus. It doesn’t have the sleek, predatory prowess of the Velociraptor, the sheer brute force of the Tyrannosaurus rex, or even the rebellious charm of the Triceratops. If the dinosaur kingdom were a high school, the T. rex would be the star quarterback, the raptors would be the overachieving honor students, and the stegosaurus—well, the stegosaurus would be the quiet kid in the back, doodling in a notebook, hoping nobody notices them.

It wasn’t built for speed. It wasn’t built for raw power. It wasn’t even built for the kind of intelligence people often associate with dinosaurs. The stegosaurus had a brain the size of a lime—laughably small for a creature the size of a bus. It lived in a world where almost everything was bigger, faster, and meaner, yet somehow, it thrived.

And maybe that’s why I’ve always loved it.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve gravitated toward the underdogs—the ones who don’t quite fit in, who aren’t given their due credit, who get pushed to the background while the flashier figures steal the spotlight. The ones who survive despite the odds, who refuse to be defined by what they lack.

The stegosaurus was written off as dim-witted, defenseless, and entirely unremarkable. But that’s where the world got it wrong. The stegosaurus was never weak. It was never stupid. It was never without purpose. But because it didn’t fit the mold of what we think a successful dinosaur should be, history largely overlooked it.

I know this feeling all too well, as I’ve spent most of my life being underestimated. People see what they want to see—an artist, a writer, a thinker—never quite understanding the full scope of what I am, what I’ve accomplished, and what I’m truly capable of. They assume softness where there is strength, passivity where there is sheer determination. They look at the pieces of me they can neatly categorize, and discard the rest.

When I was younger, that used to bother me. I wanted to prove something—wanted to be loud, undeniable, impossible to ignore. But somewhere along the way, I realized that the quiet strengths are the ones that matter most. The ability to endure. The resilience to adapt. The knowledge that you don’t have to roar to be powerful.

The stegosaurus didn’t need to be a predator to be respected. It didn’t need to be the fastest or the smartest or the most aggressive. It survived because it was exactly what it needed to be. Nothing more, nothing less. And maybe that’s enough.

History is filled with people like the stegosaurus—the underestimated, the overlooked, the ones who weren’t loud or flashy enough to be noticed, but still left an impact anyway. The ones who didn’t fit the mold of what greatness is supposed to look like.

But greatness isn’t just in power. It’s in resilience. In knowing how to stand your ground. In proving, time and time again, that being different doesn’t mean being lesser. Because sometimes, the quietest ones are the strongest of all.