By: Isaac Christopher Lubogo
There comes a time in every soul’s journey when one must ask, with trembling honesty: “When will my talent feed me?”
And in that question hides another—“Is it even a talent if it cannot?”
The Silent Gift
Picture a man who paints skies but cannot afford a roof.
Picture a woman whose voice could melt granite, yet she sings on an empty stomach.
Picture a young dreamer with a pen that bleeds brilliance but cannot afford ink.
They sit alone at night, staring at their reflection in the mirror of time—asking themselves whether their so-called talent is a divine blessing or a celestial joke.
Because what use is a gift that cannot keep the giver alive?
Is it still a talent, or just a torment wrapped in a melody?
The world has taught us to measure worth by survival, not significance.
And so, we bury our gifts beneath invoices, school fees, and unpaid rent, whispering:
“I will return to it when things get better.”
But the tragic truth is—things rarely get better.
Time does not pause for preparation; it punishes hesitation.
The Tyranny of Timing
When is the right time for your talent?
Is it when the applause is ready?
Or when the pain becomes unbearable?
Or when hunger drives you to rebellion against mediocrity?
The right time is not when you are comfortable.
It is when you are convicted.
The womb of greatness is not luxury but necessity.
A diamond does not appear when it wants—it is forced into existence by unbearable pressure.
And so it is with talent.
There comes a moment when your gift refuses to stay silent—when it begins to gnaw at your insides like a creature imprisoned in your chest.
When sleep abandons you because destiny has begun to whisper your name through the cracks of your doubt.
That, my friend, is the time.
Not when you feel ready, but when you feel restless.
The Curse of Unused Brilliance
Some talents die not because they were weak, but because their owners waited for a perfect season that never came.
They waited for sponsors, for validation, for financial stability, for family approval—
and in the waiting, they became fossils of forgotten potential.
Do you know what hell looks like?
It is not fire.
It is a room full of mirrors, each one showing you the person you could have been—the singer you silenced, the author you abandoned, the leader you ignored, the inventor you betrayed.
Every unused talent becomes a ghost that haunts the corridors of your conscience.
The Redefinition of “Talent”
Let us be honest: if your talent cannot yet feed you, it does not mean it is worthless—it means it is undercooked.
Talent is not bread—it is dough.
It must meet the furnace of discipline, consistency, strategy, and pain.
The problem is not that you lack talent—it is that you refuse to market, monetize, and mature it.
The world does not pay for potential; it pays for proof.
And proof demands sacrifice.
The painter must starve to finish the masterpiece.
The speaker must speak to empty rooms before stadiums echo his name.
The writer must bleed onto paper before the publisher prints his dream.
So, do not curse your gift because it does not yet buy bread.
Refine it until the world has no choice but to pay attention.
The Resurrection of Purpose
There comes a holy anger—a divine rebellion—when you decide that your talent will not die unnamed.
That even if the world refuses to feed you, you will feed your soul.
That even if your art does not yet bring money, it must still bring meaning.
Because sometimes, purpose precedes provision.
You do not begin because you have resources—you begin because you have resolve.
And the universe, seeing your audacity, conspires to reward your persistence.
One day, the very thing that could not feed you will feed nations.
The same voice that once cried in the wilderness will fill concert halls.
The same hands that once wrote in darkness will sign autographs in light.
Epilogue: The Final Mirror
So, when is the right time for your talent?
Now.
When the world is deaf, when the bank is empty, when nobody believes you.
Now—because every delay is a slow assassination of destiny.
And if your talent cannot yet put food on your table, let it put fire in your bones.
Let it feed your hunger for meaning until that hunger becomes your meal.
Remember this:
“Talent that cannot yet feed you is not a curse—it is a calling under construction.”
Keep building.
Because one day, the world will sit at the table your gift built—and they will eat from the fruits of your pain.
