Spare Lives, Prime Impact

How to Matter in a World That Moves On

Some are born into power and think the world depends on them. Others, just as gifted, fade—believing they were never meant to be seen. But the most powerful lives are defined not by origin, but by quiet, relentless choice.

In his memoir Spare, Prince Harry introduces us to a particular kind of identity crisis—one born not from poverty or exclusion, but from proximity to power. To be the “spare” is to live as a backup, a contingency plan. Your existence is acknowledged, but secondary. You are present, but not central.

What he describes is not uncommon, even outside the royal family. In fact, it echoes in some of the most driven, gifted, and self-aware people I know. Despite their intelligence and talent, they carry a deep belief that their contribution is negligible. That they are somehow born as side characters in a story that’s not theirs to write.

This is the real crisis of the “spare.” Not that you are overlooked by others, but that you begin to overlook yourself.

False Primes and Fading Giants

There are two distortions that high-functioning, ambitious people often fall into.

The first is delusion—a grandiose belief that the world cannot continue without them. It’s the psychological equivalent of a messianic complex: not just a desire to lead, but a compulsion to save everyone. You see it in public figures who treat their DNA as a public service, who speak of saving humanity by colonizing another planet while neglecting the one we already have. A narcissism cloaked in vision, mistaking personal ambition for collective necessity.

But the opposite illusion is far more common among the quietly brilliant. It is the idea that their work is invisible, irrelevant, or destined to fail. That they are somehow disqualified from making a meaningful impact because of where they started or how they feel.

William James Sidis is often cited as one of the most intelligent people to have ever lived, with an estimated IQ between 250 and 300. A child prodigy fluent in multiple languages, solving advanced math before adolescence. Yet he withdrew from public life entirely, publishing obscure works under pseudonyms and living in quiet obscurity. He left behind little of lasting significance—not due to lack of intellect, but perhaps due to a lack of belief in the value of his own voice.

Both delusion and self-erasure stem from the same wound: a distorted understanding of one’s role in the world.

Those Who Rose Anyway

It’s not always the ones born to lead who leave the deepest mark. More often, it’s the ones who had every reason to stay small—and chose otherwise.

Anne Frank, barely a teenager when she began her diary, never lived to see liberation. Yet her reflections, written in hiding, humanized the horrors of war for generations. It was not fame or education that gave her words power—it was the clarity of her spirit under impossible circumstances.

Viktor Frankl, neurologist and psychiatrist, was imprisoned in Nazi concentration camps. Amid starvation, death, and unspeakable loss, he observed that those who survived weren’t always the strongest, but the ones who could find meaning in suffering. His book Man’s Search for Meaning became a cornerstone of existential psychology, reminding us that we are not free from pain—but we are free to choose what we do with it.

Nelson Mandela endured 27 years of imprisonment under a brutal apartheid regime. He could have emerged angry and embittered. Instead, he offered unity. He became a leader not because he was given power, but because he understood how to wield it when it came.

Barack Obama was not born into a family of influence. He was a mixed-race boy raised by a single mother, navigating identity across two cultures in a country still reeling from its own history. He became president not by denying his complexity, but by owning it—transforming it into a bridge.

Jack Ma was rejected from dozens of jobs, including a server role at KFC. He was told he wasn’t attractive enough, not presentable enough. He was passed over because people couldn’t see potential in him. So he built a company that made sure others wouldn’t be ignored the same way.

These are not stories of easy genius. They are stories of perseverance, of choosing to matter even when the world offers no confirmation.

The Psychology of Being “Spare”

To feel like a spare is to grapple with the uncomfortable gap between potential and perception. Psychologically, this often shows up as:

• Imposter Syndrome, where competence coexists with crippling self-doubt.

• Learned Helplessness, the belief that no matter how hard you try, the outcome is fixed.

• Existential Apathy, a subtle, corrosive voice that whispers: none of this will matter anyway.

But the human psyche also contains the tools to fight back.

Albert Bandura’s concept of self-efficacy teaches us that believing in our ability to produce results is itself a prerequisite for impact. Those with a strong internal locus of control are more likely to take initiative, persist through challenges, and shape the environment rather than be shaped by it.

And existential psychologists like Frankl remind us that meaning is not discovered—it is created, especially in the presence of suffering.

It is not what we’re born into that defines us. It’s what we do with it.

The World Moves On—But It Still Notices

History is full of people whose deaths did not stop the world from spinning—but whose lives permanently altered its trajectory.

Einstein. Jobs. Mandela. Da Vinci.

None of them were immortal. But their work persists, rippling across generations. Not because they were “chosen,” but because they chose to contribute.

That’s the paradox: we are, in the cosmic sense, completely replaceable. Yet in the realm of human potential, absolutely singular.

What Will You Do With Your Spare?

You didn’t choose to be here. You may not have chosen your body, your family, or the moment in history you were born into. But now that you’re here, you have a decision to make. You can recede into the background and live as a placeholder, or you can take this life—this spare, unsummoned, temporary thing—and make it matter.

Not for legacy, not for ego, but because meaning is the most human thing we can make.

Treat your life like it was given freely.

But act like it was entrusted to you for a reason.

Because this world doesn’t need more primes or spares.

It needs people who show up, regardless of the role they were assigned—

and write their own.