12 signs you're a once-in-a-lifetime soul, even if you just feel average

Some people glow in obvious ways—awards, blue-check careers, grand entrances.

Most of us don’t. We feel…average. We pay bills, reheat leftovers, and answer messages three days late. But every so often, someone walks into a room and quietly rewires it. They don’t have to be loud. They don’t have to be famous. They just make the place feel more human, more alive, more possible.

If you’ve ever wondered whether you might be that kind of person—and dismissed it because you’re not the “main character”—this one’s for you. Here are twelve signs you’re a once-in-a-lifetime soul, even if you feel ordinary most days.

1. You leave people calmer than you found them

A once-in-a-lifetime soul doesn’t just share takes; they lower the room’s blood pressure. Friends text you after tough days, not because you have all the answers, but because you’re the person who makes their nervous system exhale. You listen without trying to out-pain them, you ask one question that matters, and you don’t rush the silence while they find their words.

Quiet superpower test: when someone tells you something messy, do you start planning advice—or do you make enough room for them to hear themselves? If it’s the second, welcome to rare air.

2. You notice invisible work and thank it out loud

Most people enjoy a moment and move on. You see the scaffolding. You spot the chopped onions, the playlist someone agonized over, the meeting agenda a coworker stitched together at midnight. And you name it: “I see what you did there—thank you.” People remember how you made their effort feel seen long after the dessert or the deliverable disappears.

I’ve mentioned this before, but gratitude isn’t a mood; it’s a skill. If you practice it consistently, you change buildings you walk through. You make people want to keep doing the good stuff.

3. You tell the truth with a light touch

Being “brutally honest” is easy; it’s also lazy. You’ve figured out how to be honest without turning the knife. You’ll say the thing—“This isn’t our best work yet,” “We’re avoiding the real issue,” “I’m not okay with that”—and you’ll frame it so the other person can stay in the room with you. Your feedback lands because it values the person more than the performance.

Watch for the phrase you use when you’re brave and kind at the same time. Keep it. That’s your signature.

4. You remember small specifics that make people feel big

A once-in-a-lifetime soul holds tiny details like they’re keys: the name of a barista’s dog, the exact tea a friend drinks when they’re anxious, the track that got someone through quarantine. Months later, you bring it back at the right moment. That’s not manipulation—it’s care with a memory.

If you feel “bad at birthdays,” great; be good at Tuesdays. Drop a two-line check-in when the month hits a hard anniversary. Order the weird chips they loved as a kid. Your ordinary timing turns into extraordinary meaning.

5. You can hold two truths without needing to win

Rare souls don’t flatten complexity to feel safe. You can say “I understand why you feel that” and “I disagree” without needing to burn the bridge. You’re secure enough to be curious. You’ll ask, “What would change your mind?” and actually listen.

At scale, this is a peacekeeping trait. In friendships, it’s the difference between relationships that survive new seasons and those that expire when the script changes.

6. You repair fast and clean

Everyone fights. The rare ones fix. You apologize without footnotes. You name your part without narrating the other person’s. You suggest an experiment to keep it from boomeranging next week. And you circle back—even if the conversation is awkward, even if your pride wants to let time do the work.

Tell me you’ve sent the “I’m sorry for how I said it—here’s what I’m trying to do differently” text, and I’ll tell you you’re not average. You’re a builder.

7. Your curiosity runs hotter than your judgment

Average is “I’ve decided who you are.” Rare is “Teach me how you see it.” You ask follow-ups. You stay interested after the headline. You don’t confuse a person’s worst moment with their whole biography. When people feel investigated instead of indicted, they offer you their best self. You bring it out of them by seeing it before they do.

Curiosity sounds like: “What felt hard about that?” “What would make it 10% easier?” “What’s the part you’re not saying yet?” Those questions are emotional locksmithing.

8. You create pockets of ritual that make life feel like life

Once-in-a-lifetime souls don’t wait for the big trip to make memories. They build small rituals that glue time together: Tuesday tacos with a rotating guest, first-day-of-spring sunrise walks, “call me on the drive home” check-ins, end-of-month pizza on the floor with a movie that needs subtitles. People link those rituals to you and feel steadier because of it.

If you think you’re boring, you might just be reliable. Reliability is a love language disguised as logistics.

9. You protect your principles without turning self-righteous

There’s a line you don’t cross, and you don’t need a megaphone to point at it. You’ll leave a room that mocks the vulnerable. You’ll push back when someone makes cruelty sound clever. You’ll tell a client “no” when the ask violates your ethics—even if that costs you shiny things. And you still smile, still stay human, still treat people as redeemable unless they insist on proving otherwise.

Mature conviction is rare because it’s quiet. It holds shape under pressure without needing applause.

10. You make things—ideas, meals, plans, music—without asking permission

A once-in-a-lifetime soul doesn’t need an audience to create. You’re the person who writes the itinerary so others can rest, who turns leftovers into something better, who builds a playlist that becomes the memory of the night. You move ideas into the world because you can’t help yourself.

A friend of mine prints little city walking maps for visitors, with espresso stops and hidden viewpoints. Costs a couple dollars. People keep them for years. That’s how rare shows up: small, thoughtful, repeatable.

11. You’re tender with your own limits

Contrary to the highlight reel, rare souls aren’t superhuman. They don’t go until they crack. They take the nap, ask for help, leave ten minutes early to be on time, say “I can’t tonight” without treating rest like a moral failure. That self-respect keeps their kindness from souring into resentment. It also makes their presence sustainable. People who last are rarer than people who burn bright once.

Quick reframe: boundaries don’t reduce your generosity; they concentrate it.

12. You quietly expand the room you’re in

Some people take up space. You make space. You invite the quieter person to speak. You credit the source of the idea in public. You split the check fairly, pour water for others first, ask the server’s name, and mean it. In meetings, you ask “Who haven’t we heard from yet?” and then you actually wait. By the end, the room is bigger than when you walked in.

That’s the once-in-a-lifetime effect: everyone leaves with a little more of themselves intact.

Two small stories to give this shape

The airport bench.
I was at a gate delay spiral—two hours past boarding, snacks gone hostile—when a woman pulled out a deck of cards and asked the kid across from her if he knew “War.” Five minutes later, four strangers were laughing and keeping score. She didn’t fix the delay. She fixed the room. Nobody clapped; nobody followed her on anything. But when we finally boarded, the gate agent looked less haunted, and the kid high-fived her like she was an aunt. That’s rare. Ordinary materials, uncommon effect.

The Tuesday night text.
A friend sends a one-sentence check-in every week to three people: “Anything you need backed this week?” Sometimes I say “all good.” Sometimes I say, “Remind me to get outside.” Sometimes I say, “Ask me Wednesday if I actually sent the pitch.” It takes him two minutes. It makes my week move in a better direction. He’s not a guru. He’s a guy with a calendar reminder and a generous instinct. Once-in-a-lifetime souls run on that kind of generous automation.

If you’re reading this thinking, “That’s not me”

Two things. First, a lot of these traits hide in plain habits you already have. You just don’t label them “special” because they feel like breathing. Ask two people who know you, “What do I do that makes your life easier?” Take notes. You’ll be surprised.

Second, none of this is genetic fate. It’s practice. You can become rarer by making small, stubborn choices:

• Pick one person to check in with weekly (two lines, not a paragraph).

• Say “thank you for X” instead of “thanks” (name the thing).

• Replace one hot take with one honest question every day.

• Apologize once this week without a defense brief.

• Build a tiny ritual (Wednesday walk, Friday soup, Sunday playlist).

• Credit someone publicly for something they contributed.

• Name one boundary and keep it (bedtime, screen break, “I’ll be there for one hour”).

You’ll notice the loop: the more you do these, the more people treat you like the rare person you’re becoming—and the more that identity stops feeling like a stretch.

A word about feeling “average”

“Average” is a comparison story with terrible lighting. It highlights other people’s loud moments and crops out your quiet ones. The truth is, most lives are built (or broken) by quiet people doing repeatable things. The person who remembers your kid’s recital date. The neighbor who salts both sides of the stoop. The coworker who won’t let a good idea die because the meeting ran long. None of that trends. All of that shapes how a day feels to the people around you.

If you keep showing up in those ways—steady, specific, curious, honest—you’ll look up one day and realize you’ve become someone people miss before you leave the room. That’s a once-in-a-lifetime soul. Not because you’re perfect. Because you made the world more livable in a radius you could touch.

The bottom line

You don’t need a pedestal to be rare. You need presence. You need the courage to tell the soft truth, the attention to notice invisible effort, the humility to repair quickly, the curiosity to expand rooms instead of winning them, and the stamina to keep doing it when no one’s filming. Do that long enough and you’ll stop wondering if you matter and start noticing how often people lean your way when things get real.

Average on paper. Once-in-a-lifetime in practice. That’s the good stuff—and it’s available every Tuesday you decide to be the person who makes the room breathe.