When They Go Low, We Go High - A Reflection on Altitude and Essence

“When they go low, we go high.”

A phrase that became a movement.
A mantra stitched into speeches, protests, captions, and quiet reminders to hold your dignity when your body wants to do anything but.

I’ve carried those words with me.
They’ve steadied me.
Softened me.
Reminded me that who I choose to be matters more than how someone tries to make me feel.

But lately, I’ve been asking myself—what does “going high” really mean?

Because I’ve seen the phrase used like armour—
To silence anger.
To suppress pain.
To force grace where boundaries were needed.
To perform dignity, rather than feel it.

And I’ve been on the other side, too—
Where someone’s “low” wasn’t malice, but a cry from a place they didn’t know how to name.
Where sharpness came from shame.
Where reaction came from trauma.
Where their “low” was survival, not strategy.

And so I’ve stopped thinking in elevation.
High, low, above, below—none of that matters if we don’t ask what altitude is built on.
Because altitude without essence is just ego dressed in elegance.

Going high isn’t about looking better.
It’s not about being above.
It’s not about swallowing what hurts so you can be applauded for your restraint.

Going high, for me, is about returning to what’s rooted.
To act from centre, not from wound.
To pause not because I’m afraid, but because I’ve done the work to know when silence is stronger than spectacle.
And sometimes, going high is speaking truth clearly and calmly—
Not for retaliation.
Not for the crowd.
But because the ground I stand on deserves a voice.

But let me be clear—
Going high does not always mean walking away.
It’s not turning the other cheek when your spirit is bleeding.
It’s not bottling your truth to appear gracious.
And it is definitely not self-abandonment in the name of looking evolved.

Going high can mean staying in the room—
but choosing not to match energy that would leave you feeling misaligned.
It can mean speaking up—
but from clarity, not chaos.
It can mean setting a boundary so clean and quiet it doesn’t leave bruises, just space.
It can mean saying, “This ends with me,”
not because you’re better,
but because you’ve lived long enough to know what continuing would cost.

Because there is a kind of power in not letting someone pull you out of yourself.
Not because you're afraid to go there—
but because you’ve already been there.
You know what it takes to come back.

Going high isn’t an exit strategy.
It’s a soul decision.

It says:
I will not contort to prove a point.
I will not trade my peace to win a war I didn’t start.
And I will not let your lowest moment convince me to abandon my highest self.

And sometimes, going high is doing the hard thing—
but not the performance of hard.
Not the dramatic exit.
Not the self-silencing disguised as virtue.

I mean the true hard thing.

The kind of hard that requires you to ask yourself why—five times over.
Why it hurts.
Why it matters.
Why you want to respond.
Why you need to hold or let go.
And finally—why you’ll choose what you choose.

That kind of hard.

Because sometimes going high is setting a boundary—
not to punish,
but to protect yourself and protect the other person from the worst in both of you.
Sometimes, going high is staying present and walking away.
Is speaking gently and saying no.
Is loving someone and choosing not to enable the version of them that harms.

It is restraint—but not repression.
It is truth—but not weaponised.
It is staying rooted when everything in you wants to rise in flames.

The more I live, the less interested I am in optics.
I don’t want to seem calm.
I want to be grounded.
I don’t want to appear generous.
I want to give without resentment.
I don’t want to “go high” just to hold the moral upper hand.
I want to go true.
To act from the part of me that isn’t trying to win—just trying to stay whole.

Because going high, when it’s real, is not about being above anyone.
It’s about not leaving yourself behind.

And that’s where essence comes in.

It’s the inner knowing you don’t have to broadcast.
The kind of dignity that isn’t loud.
The kind of strength that doesn’t punish.
The kind of clarity that allows you to say:
I see your pain.
I see mine.
And I will choose a response that honours both, without betraying either.

That’s what “going high” means to me now.
Not floating above it all, but walking through it without losing who I am.

Not about looking enlightened.
But about choosing light, even when no one’s watching.

Because altitude—
it looks different on everyone.

But essence?
Essence is what you carry with you.
When the room is watching.
When no one is.
When you speak.
When you stay silent.
When you walk away.
When you stay and face it.

And if I go high—
it won’t be to escape the low.
It will be to return to myself.