I Owe Beyoncé an Apology After Last Night!

What I witnessed at the Cowboy Carter Rodeo Chitlin’ Circuit Tour wasn't a concert—it was a calling.

Beyoncé. Cowboy Carter: The Rodeo Chitlin’ Circuit Tour, Night 1 – New Jersey.

I’ve seen Beyoncé live twelve times. That’s not a flex—it’s a truth I’ve lived. But last night, at the opening night of Cowboy Carter in New Jersey, something happened. Something shifted. I didn’t just attend another Beyoncé concert. I witnessed something I wasn’t ready for. By the night's end, I was overwhelmed—not just by the show's brilliance, but by a quiet guilt. A desire to say, “I’m sorry.”

I owe Beyoncé an apology.

For the way this world underappreciates excellence. For the weight she carries alone. And we’ve all become so numb to greatness that we forget to honor it when it’s right in front of us.

Because last night, Beyoncé reminded me—she isn’t just performing. She is answering a call.

We casually throw around the word greatness, but there is a chasm between fame and purpose. Anyone can be famous. But people like Whitney, Michael, Mariah, Tina, Prince, Patti, and Beyoncé operate differently. These are not entertainers. They are chosen. They are vessels. They don’t show up for applause—they show up because they have no other choice. Purpose doesn’t clock in and out. It possesses you.

And last night, I watched Beyoncé live fully, relentlessly, and unapologetically in her purpose.

The show opens with “American Requiem.” From the jump, it’s clear we’re not easing into anything. A requiem, by definition, is a mass for the dead. But this didn’t feel like a funeral for a nation. It felt like a eulogy for standards. For quality. For artistry. For a time when greatness meant doing the work, not just being visible.

But Beyoncé isn’t interested in mourning. She’s interested in resurrecting.

And what she builds across the next two hours is breathtaking. The stage isn’t just a structure—it’s a town—a Western fantasia built with precision, wit, and world-building that rivals cinema. Runways stretch like highways with Cécred and Sir Davis acting as billboards. Platforms named KNTRY Radio and The Horseshoe anchor the corners like civic landmarks. She doesn’t walk through this space—she owns it. At one point, she flies overhead in a red convertible, soaring above the crowd like a deity in denim. And in that moment, it hit me: we’re not just watching the show. We are the show. We’re inside the story.

But what truly broke me was the music—the curation, the intention, the journey through genre and time. Beyoncé uses this tour to trace the roots of Black music. She doesn’t just honor her influences—she channels them. Little Richard, Tina Turner, and Prince are alive in her voice, grit, and rebellion. And as she moves through the setlist, she tells the story of American music through the lens of Black resilience, creativity, and cultural ownership.

Then something else happened—something I wasn’t expecting.

I was reminded—viscerally—of why I’ve been a day-one member of the Beyhive. Somewhere along the way, working in this industry, I became desensitized. What once felt unreachable, divine, and otherworldly has become my everyday reality. I know the behind-the-scenes. I know the smoke and mirrors. And in knowing it all, I forgot the wonder.

But last night cracked me open.

As I watched her command the stage, I was suddenly transported to my twelfth birthday. I had just received The Beyoncé Experience DVD. I remember popping it into the player, sitting on the floor, wide-eyed, watching this force of a woman work. And I was amazed. She amazed me. That DVD didn’t just entertain me—it shifted something inside me. It made me believe in what was possible. It made me dream differently. Watching her last night reminded me of where I am today, the choices I’ve made, the way I move through this world—I owe that to the little kid watching Beyoncé tear down that stage all those years ago.

She softened something in me last night. She peeled back the layers of cynicism and routine that the industry builds up in us and reminded me of the why—why I started, why I love this, and why it matters.

And so I say this with my whole chest: everyone should go see Cowboy Carter. Even if you’re not a fan. Even if you’ve never streamed a Beyoncé song in your life, this isn’t about music, it’s about magnitude. It’s about what happens when someone dedicates their entire being to mastery. When someone says yes to their destiny and never lets up.

You will leave that stadium changed. You will want to dream bigger, try harder, believe again, and fight for your calling with the same precision and fire you saw on that stage.

But let me be clear: no one is saying we all have to be Beyoncé. That’s not the point. I’ll never forget the time I asked Oprah Winfrey, “Do you actually understand who you are?” And without missing a beat, she said yes—almost nonchalantly. It caught me off guard at first. But then I realized: when you are living in your purpose, you’re not performing greatness. You’re just being. You’re doing what you know how to do. Or better yet, what you were called to do.

That’s what this is about. You don’t need a stadium, a spotlight, or a fanbase to be extraordinary. You don’t need a mic in your hand or cameras following your every move. I don’t care if you’re a janitor, a librarian, a plumber, a parent, a teacher, or a barista—greatness doesn’t require fame. It requires devotion.

We all have the potential to be the Beyoncé of our own lives—to move with precision, passion, and pride in whatever space we occupy. To wake up and do our work like it matters—because it does. The world doesn’t need more celebrities. It needs more people who are fully alive in what they were meant to do.

Because when we walk in our calling, no matter how quiet or unseen, it creates something eternal. Something that outlasts us. Whether your gift is raising a child, restoring a home, caring for a community, or simply making someone’s day a little easier, there is legacy in that. There is immortality in that.

Everyone should aspire to be the absolute best at whatever their calling is. Not for recognition, but for resonance. Because the truth is, when you honor the work you were born to do, the impact will echo long after you're gone. And that-that is a life well-lived.

Because Beyoncé isn’t just a star, she’s a mirror. And she reflects back what all of us could be—if we’re willing to meet our own moment with the same faith, focus, and ferocity.

So yes. I owe Beyoncé an apology.
And I owe her my deepest gratitude.