There’s a certain heaviness that comes with constantly feeling like you’re not enough. Like no matter how much you try, how much you give, someone out there is doing it better—living better, looking better, having it easier. And in the quiet moments, I find myself comparing. Wishing. Whispering silently, “Damn, why can’t I be like her?”
I look at people and wonder what it feels like to wake up confident, to move through life without constantly doubting your worth. It seems so easy for them. Their lives look curated—neatly arranged like polished shelves. Mine feels more like a storeroom: cluttered, chaotic, always being rearranged but never quite in place.
Sometimes, I catch myself envying the people I admire. It’s not bitterness. It’s not hate. It’s a quiet ache—an ache that wonders why my life feels like the slow version of a fast-forward story. Why their smiles seem fuller. Why their dreams seem closer. Why their journey looks smoother.
But then again, maybe that’s the lie I keep telling myself—that everyone else has it better. Maybe it’s not true. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe I’ve stared too long at someone else's path and lost sight of my own.
My life is structured differently. I know this. I tell myself this. Over and over again. I didn’t start where they started. I don’t carry what they carry. My wins may be smaller, but they matter. My pace may be slower, but it’s still forward. Still something.
Still, there are days I wish my life was something else. Something more. Something brighter. I wish I didn’t have to fight so hard for peace of mind. I wish I didn’t feel like I’m always trying to catch up, always trying to prove I belong, that I’m worth something.
I try not to let it get to me. I really do. I drown myself in distractions, in positive quotes, in self-talk that sometimes sounds more like a performance than belief. I try to celebrate myself, to remind myself of how far I’ve come. But on the bad days, it’s hard. On the bad days, it all feels so far away—like confidence, like self-love, like peace.
But even in that space, I’m learning. Learning that it’s okay to feel this way. That I don’t have to pretend. That life isn’t a race and I don’t have to be a copy of anyone else. That it’s okay to envy and still be kind. To doubt and still keep trying.
We are different. We are different!!. And maybe I don’t need to be like her. Maybe being me, broken pieces and all, is enough. Or at least, it's getting there. I AM GETTING THERE!!
