Why Mariah Carey’s Late-Stage Awards Made Me Think About My Own Need for Recognition

Last night, Mariah Carey won her very first VMA.

Let that sink in.

The Mariah Carey. One of the most successful artists in music history — five-octave range, countless number-one hits, a Christmas anthem so culturally embedded it practically has its own postal code — just now won her first MTV Video Music Award.

Not long before that, she also picked up her first BET Award.

And as I sat with that, I had to ask: how is it that someone with such an iconic legacy is receiving these honors now, long after her so-called “prime”? And stranger still… why did it hit me so personally?

The truth is, I’ve never won an industry award.

Not in marketing. Not in advertising. Not yet.

I’ve come close. Runner-up, honorable mentions. The kind of “almost” that’s flattering enough to mention in passing, but not something you’re stating on your LinkedIn banner.

People assume I’ve won awards. A collaborator recently asked me for my bio and specifically requested a list of accolades — names, dates, the whole official roll call. I paused. Took a breath. And replied with the truth:

“I don’t have any awards.”

And while I said it plainly, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a little.

I tell myself that awards don’t matter.

That I’m not doing this work — the long nights, the strategic breakthroughs, the creative pushes — for a shiny plaque or a glass trophy. I say that I don’t need external validation. That what matters is the impact. The integrity. The relationships.

But deep down… is that the full truth?

When I was a kid, I lived for award ceremonies. I would dress up, do my hair, rehearse my smile in the mirror. Not for attention, but because awards meant someone saw my effort. They noticed.

If I didn’t get the award I was hoping for? I’d spiral a bit. And then I’d turn that disappointment into fuel for the next year.

Even now, as a mom, I never pressure my daughters about awards. I want them to be whole and happy with or without gold stars. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t still show up to their school ceremonies with the same nervous anticipation I once had for my own. I beam when their name is called. I take pride in every certificate, every ribbon — and yes, I keep them all.

As someone who’s dug deep into my Gene Keys and Human Design, I wasn’t entirely surprised to discover that recognition is a core theme in my energetic makeup.

There’s a thread in my chart — a literal design frequency — that speaks to this deep soul desire: to be seen, acknowledged, and recognized for the essence of who I am. Not just the output, not just the accomplishments. But the being beneath the doing.

It’s not vanity.

It’s not ego.

It’s alignment.

I’m wired to thrive when I’m in spaces where people genuinely see me — and where I can reflect that same recognition back at others.

So no, it’s not shallow that I ache a little when I’m overlooked. It’s not weird that awards — even if they’re imperfect systems — still carry weight in my heart.

Mariah Carey didn’t need a VMA to be a legend.

She didn’t need a BET award to be a culture-shifter, a hitmaker, a voice that defined generations.

And yet… now that she has those awards, we don’t question her legacy — we celebrate it.

So what does that mean for people like me? Like you, maybe? The ones who do the work, show up with heart, and still haven’t had that “official” moment of recognition?

Does the absence of awards mean the absence of worth?

Of course not.

But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t talk about the ache. The longing. The quiet “why not me?” that sometimes visits us in the middle of an otherwise beautiful day.

Here’s what I’m learning to believe:

Recognition starts at home.

In the way I talk to myself about my work.
In how I allow others to see the real me.
In what I celebrate, even if no one else is clapping.

Would it feel amazing to win a marketing award someday? Absolutely. I still hope I do. But if I don’t? That doesn’t mean I failed.

It means I built something too real to be measured by the fickle mechanics of industry spotlights.

Mariah Carey is still Mariah Carey, whether or not she wins.

And I’m still me — whole, worthy, brilliant in my own lane.

Maybe this confession is the award.

Maybe the fact that I showed up to tell the truth is the realest gold star I’ll ever need.

PS: If you’re someone who’s never won the award but shows up anyway, day after day — this one’s for you too.

With Love,

yeliza