It’s hard. Maybe impossible. But I’m trying—not always successfully—to resist the urge to compare myself to others.
I like to imagine it’s like being at one of those silent discos from the early 2000s—everyone dancing to their own music through headphones. Same room, same party, different rhythms, different vibes.
Lately, I’ve been reminding myself: I’m at the same party, connected to the rest of humanity, but the bass and treble are my own.
Don’t compare yourself to others.
Solid advice. Maybe too solid—repeated so often it becomes a truism. But it’s nearly impossible to follow. We’re social animals. Comparison is wired into us. Trying to completely resist it is exhausting. But still, it’s worth trying.
Sometimes I just whisper to myself: Live in your own body.
Your story is different.
Your mind works differently.
Your responses, your energy, your inspiration—they’re all filtered through the reality of being you.
So I try to stay with what is.
To accept the joys and the challenges of this moment.
To trust that my path will unfold in its own way—with its own detours, its own pacing, and its own timing.
Life is stranger, more surprising, and more difficult than I can plan for. And comparison only offers the illusion of an instruction manual.
To counter it, I’ve found curiosity to be a powerful tool.
When the urge to compare arises, I try not to crumple in on myself. I try to look outward. Not with judgment—of them or of myself—but with a kind of open-heartedness. A willingness to be nudged into new ways of thinking.
I don’t always get it right. But when I do, something shifts.
Working remotely as a consultant, my days often feel like world-building from a swivel chair. There’s a strange thrill in that—shaping something meaningful out of thin air. But it’s also challenging.
Some days, I find myself staring at a pixelated face on a screen, trying to imagine the warmth of real connection—the kind that lives in shared rooms, over coffee, with spontaneous laughter.
I move through my days one task at a time, reminding myself that even the mundane parts are bricks in the foundation of a creative life I’m trying to build.
And when I’m tired, connecting with others—without comparison—feels like a reset.
Hearing their stories. Seeing them move to their own rhythms.Wondering what music they’re dancing to. Learning how they’ve made sense of things.
It helps me imagine new ways to move. It feeds my thirst for connection, inspiration, and the kind of hope that doesn’t ask for guarantees.
So I keep dancing to my own beat, grateful I’m still at the party.
And some days, that’s more than enough.