Measuring yourself against everyone else doesn’t make you better — it just makes you disappear.

Comparison is the thief of joy – or so we’re told. But it feels like comparison is so natural and prominent – sometimes even encouraged.

In workplaces, in schools, even your mum telling you what Kathy from down-the-road’s daughter is doing. We grow up looking at other people, measuring ourselves against them. No wonder we get to the point where we look everywhere else but in the mirror.

Comparison can act as a guiding light sometimes, it can show us if we’re on the right track, give us inspiration – but it very quickly can spiral into negativity.

I’ve spent a lot of my life comparing myself to others. Feeling less than, more than, even on the same level. Measuring my worth based on how I showed up compared to the people around me. Oh, well, she has better eyebrows, but my cheekbones are more pronounced.

I just made that example up, but you get the point.

I feel you end up just losing all sense of yourself. I used to look in the mirror, and not even see myself, but a version of me that was relative to everyone else. It became a disease of the mind.

It’s painful. As there’s never a way to really measure up to another person, no matter how hard you try. If I were to compare myself to every person on the planet I would short circuit on insecurity and self-doubt. There’s no winning that game.

Someone will always be doing better, someone will always be prettier, have more money, be smarter. And that will kill us. And there will always be someone who is worse off than we are. And even though it shouldn’t, that gives us relief.

I feel in your 20s comparison is a lot more prominent. I talk about this in my latest podcast episode ‘Lost, Learning & Figuring Life Out – The Truth About Your 20s’ (available on my profile, hint hint).

In your 20s, everyone is doing something different. You can compare yourself against all your ex-classmates, your colleagues, whoever – in one sense or another, you will fall short. Maybe you just got a promotion, but someone else has just bought a house. Maybe you have started to settle down, but that person’s stories you obsessively watch on Instagram has just gone travelling for six months and all of a sudden, your cozy settled down life feels like a trap.

On the other hand, that person you hate has just lost their job so really, you’re doing fine. And feeling a bit smug.

It’s like we need this sense of comparison and hierarchy in a way in order to feel solidified and confident in where we are. Because really, there are no rules anymore. No guideline, no gold star at the end of the week and extra play time for good behaviour.

But what piece of mind do you get with that, constantly looking over your shoulder, looking sideways, anywhere but forward and on your own path. Other than temporary validation (depending on who you’re comparing yourself to), all it really does is distract you.

As deep down, we don’t want to admit that we’re all scared, and knowing that others are in the same boat as us is slightly less scary.

Are you in the same boat though, really? No one you compare yourself to will ever live the same life as you, so your comparisons are actually null and void. You will also never be happy with your achievements or any progress you make if someone else is doing better.

What an empty life that will turn out to be. As they say, the only person you need to compare yourself to, is the you from yesterday. Even then, be kind to yourself.

A reckoning with solitude, self-protection, and learning to be seen.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what makes me feel safe.

When I think of safety, the obvious things spring to mind: money, food, shelter. But I can have all of those, and still feel unsafe. Is it love that brings me safety? Relationships? Friendships? They contribute to that feeling, but again, even with all that present, I can feel unsafe.

Throughout the years, I’ve found my sense of safety to be unstable. When it came to expressing myself to others, I preferred to stay hidden. When it came to letting others in, I was anxious that they would leave me. Still, I searched for the safety I craved in other people. I hoped they would be able to bring me that sense of inner safety I was unable to provide for myself. Unsurprisingly, they couldn’t.

It won’t come as a shock that the more I looked for safety in others, the less I found it in myself – in fact I kept myself hidden and accepted from others what I shouldn’t.

I didn’t understand that the thing I was looking for in other people had to first be created within myself. I didn’t realise it was something I could cultivate, nurture. Instead, I chased it everywhere, and naturally, it repelled the other way.

I wanted others to trust in me, to believe in me, to be there for me, to fix things for me, to validate me, when I was unable to myself. It’s not that I shouldn’t receive those things from other people, but more it shouldn’t be my sole source of those emotions.

Now, it’s like the pendulum has swung the other way. If you were to ask me where I feel safe, I’d say I feel safe in isolation. I feel safe when I’m alone, and I’m free to be myself, without judgement from others. When I’m in my bubble, safe from external factors.

But is that safety? Or is that fear? It feels safe, as I’m protecting myself from being vulnerable. I’m ‘safe’ from rejection, opinions, judgement. But it’s also hindering me from growing.

I say I feel safe when I’m alone. But I want to be seen. I want to be heard. I want to be understood. So, what if I place my sense of safety elsewhere? Because what if the things that make me feel ‘safe’ are actually holding me back?

I wonder what my sense of safety actually is, and how much of it is really fear.

I say safety must first be cultivated within myself. But what does that mean? Is it trust, is it confidence? Is it acceptance? I try to place where I can feel safe for myself, and I come up empty. Maybe it’s a combination of things.

Maybe it’s knowing that when things get tough, I’ll be able to handle it. When I start to doubt myself, I can bring myself back up. When I look for someone to believe in me, I can turn to myself. I can allow myself to fail and keep trying. I can allow myself to push the boundaries of what feels ‘safe’ and comfortable and be kind to myself when it takes time to adjust.

In the absence of material things, the only thing I have to come back to is myself. It’s both comforting and terrifying. But that’s the complexity of being human.