Finding Balance: Lessons from Mac and The Black Mamba
A look at the very different, but equally impactful, ways in which Mac Miller and Kobe Bryant have inspired millions of fans (including myself)
I don’t think I’m alone in spending most days trying to figure out the right approach to staying motivated. Should I embrace vulnerability, find a community of like-minded people, and draw strength in numbers? Or do I need to toughen up—create an alter ego that stands alone, completely self-reliant, keeping my nose to the grindstone and powering through every obstacle, outworking everyone as I chase my goals? I ping-pong between these two approaches regularly, and to be honest, neither one feels like the full answer.
This past week gave me reason to reflect on two individuals who had a massive impact on me during their far-too-short time on this planet. On January 19th, Mac Miller would have turned 33, and on January 26th, we marked the anniversary of Kobe Bryant's passing. For me, these two men embody the two motivational paths I mentioned earlier. In the contrast of their approaches to life, I believe there’s a lesson—a balance—that can guide us in our own pursuit of self-fulfillment.
Mac was a unicorn talent, haunted by an army of personal demons. When an artist loses their battle with addiction, it’s easy to reduce their story to a narrative of wasted potential—someone whose immense talent was overshadowed by fragility, too weak to survive in a harsh world. But I don’t think that was Mac. Addiction is an unfathomable beast, one that defies comprehension unless you’ve fought it yourself or watched someone you love struggle. Witnessing it is like seeing a humpback whale up close for the first time—you know it’s massive, but only when you look it in the eye do you truly grasp its enormity. I’ve watched far too many people I care about face this monster, and more often than not, it claims its victims. Mac fought valiantly, chronicling every twist and turn of his journey through his music.
He bled for us, his fans, pouring his struggles into his art. Yet, in the midst of his vulnerability, he always whispered that it was going to be alright. Mac’s music offered more than a glimpse into his darkness; it offered hope—hope that things could get better. A song like "2009" could simultaneously break your heart and remind you to take a deep breath, move forward, and put one foot in front of the other. Many artists lay their pain bare in their work, but Mac had a rare gift: he could bleed onto the page in a way that left listeners not just feeling seen but feeling hopeful. For an entire community of fans—many of whom know the feeling of standing on the edge of giving up—his music became a lifeline, their own radioactive spider bite, giving them the superpower to fight another day.
Maybe the darker forces of this world ultimately proved too strong for him, but in his tragically short life, Mac brought an extraordinary amount of light into the world. That, I’d argue, is true strength.
Kobe Bryant, on the other hand, showed no weakness. He was human, just like the rest of us, but the Black Mamba—now that was a being that spit in the face of limitations. My favorite Kobe stories aren’t necessarily the ones about his on-court heroics. They’re the ones that showcase his absurd, almost mythical work ethic, the foundation that allowed us to witness superhuman feats in the biggest moments of his career. We often talk about 'ice water in their veins' as if being calm under pressure is an innate trait, a natural-born gift. And while there may be some truth to genetic advantages, I believe greatness under pressure is more about preparation.
Kobe worked himself to the bone, 24/7, so that when those high-pressure moments came, he didn’t just hope he’d rise to the occasion—he knew he would. He had already done the work, made the sacrifices, and put himself through the fire. Greatness isn’t magic; it’s earned. It’s earned in those 4 a.m. workouts Kobe was famous for, making sure he’d already logged hours of practice before his opponents (or even his teammates) had hit snooze on their alarms. It’s earned by skipping nights out or big steak dinners to focus on conditioning or perfecting his shot. It’s in the strict diet, the regimented sleep schedule, and the meticulously planned routines—those thousands of micro-decisions everyday that snowball over time, transforming into a 2-ton, game-changing ice boulder of momentum.
That is strength. True strength lies in the relentless, minute-to-minute choices we make to either ease up or dig deeper. Kobe chose to live as the Black Mamba, even when Kobe Bryant the man might have needed rest, a break, or simply space to be human. He loved basketball, and he wanted to be the best to ever play the game. At every crossroads, he chose the harder path—the one that led closer to his dream, no matter how exhausted, frustrated, or in pain he was. That’s the Mamba Mentality. And if it doesn’t light a fire under you to push that extra 10% toward your own dreams, I don’t know what will.
Both of these men reached the pinnacle of what they dedicated their lives to. Both inspired millions of people to be better—to quit drinking, to lose weight, to chase dreams that others deemed too risky. In their own heroic pursuits, Mac Miller and Kobe Bryant made us better simply by showing us what dedication, vulnerability, and relentless passion look like. But they were very different people. What made them great was different. And just like them, what it takes to become the best version of ourselves is, you guessed it, different.
As I continue my lifelong journey of trying to find the best version of myself, I’ll look to the examples they set. I will be tough. I will outwork anyone standing in the way of what I want—whether that’s someone else or the past version of myself. But I won’t do it alone. I will stumble, and I will be honest about it—with myself and with others. In balancing the motivations of Mac and the Black Mamba, I hope to uncover the version of myself I’ve been striving for. And I hope you find yours, too.