The Devil Is in the Label

Hey, it's Sunday Morning,

My dad took my brother and me out for dinner when I was five or six. The food came: sancocho, the Dominican stew capable of fixing almost anything, with a side of plain white rice.

A red bottle sat on the table.

To my six-year-old eyes, it looked like ketchup. I didn’t read the label, shook it generously over my rice, stirred with confidence, and took a big bite.

That’s how I met Tabasco.

I spent the rest of the meal sweating and sniffling while my dad tried not to laugh. I’d been warned not to touch the stove. No one warned me about the devil in a tiny bottle.

I think about that night often, because it revealed something about assumptions. I saw a red bottle and thought, I know what this is.

I didn’t.

We label quickly and commit confidently.

I was a rule-following, keep-it-mild kind of child. But that night, sweating through every bite, I met a version of myself I hadn’t planned for: curious, a little foolish, but fully awake.

I’ve spent years reaching for bottles I thought I knew—assuming I’d figured out who I was, what I wanted, how I showed up.

I hadn’t.

I’ve been the leader who felt responsible for every answer, and quietly avoided asking for help.

The father who showed up every day, but not always in the ways that mattered most.

The coach who made space for everyone else, and treated his own like an afterthought.

Different labels. Same bottle.

Life keeps handing us red bottles we swear we understand. Sometimes the only way to learn is to take the bite anyway. And when you do, you meet a version of yourself you hadn’t planned for.

That’s not failure. That’s fluency.

Until next Sunday.