Your Life is Abundant: Reflections on Self Comparison

New Happy by Stephanie Harrison

Jeez. I read this quote this morning and it just hit me.

​How often do we let ourselves think our journey should be different; somehow faster, getting somewhere sooner?

Sometimes certain life events, bumps in the road, can sow a seed of doubt: maybe I’m wrong. Maybe everyone else is farther ahead. Maybe I’ll always be behind.

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​The reality is that we see 100% of our own lives, and only 1% of everyone else's life.

​And if you could see the full picture of everyone's journeys, you would stop judging yours so harshly.

​This past weekend I had to make a difficult decision to stop teaching acrylic painting at Painting with a Twist. One of my new years goals for my art business was to teach more art classes.

​Not only was teaching something I loved to do, but I felt it was an area of untapped potential as an income stream. I emailed several local paint shops nearby, and Painting with a Twist accepted my application.

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I spent several weeks chatting with customers and helping guide people through paintings. My favorite thing about teaching was how I could witness people start out timid and uncertain, and see their confidence grow throughout the class.
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While I loved teaching, I quickly started to understand that the limits of what I could offer were exceeding capacity, and what I thought would be a welcome addition to my rhythm in life was slowly depleting and draining me.

This was in large part due to the excessive light and sound stimuli. Music playing + 50 people talking + me talking over them + bright white fluorescent lights = overstimulated Jen. ​

My whole life I've struggled with a sensory processing disorder. To put it plainly, lights are too bright, and sounds are too loud. Despite wearing Loop Earplugs every day while teaching, the stimuli was still too much.

​I remember being a kid, and I didn't notice it much.  My home was largely accommodating of my sensory processing disorder– probably because all (if not most) of my family members processed sound and light similarly. My mom always said, "I like quiet."

Same, Mom. Same.

A cute boardwalk area in Atlanta, Georgia. I took this photo while visiting my sister, Leisa. :-)

But as I grew older, went off to college, and was exposed to the different ways people lived life, my differences in sensory processing became much more clear.
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My freshman year of college, my first roommate said I was "weird" for sitting in the dark- but that was just what was comfortable for me. I wore sunglasses indoors to my college job at a call center to avoid the harsh fluorescent lights. I eventually bought earplugs to stop wincing at sounds (a car driving by, someone laughing too loudly, the pop of a stereo turning on) while I was out with friends.
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​I never understood how it was so easy for others.

​Occasionally I felt jealous, ruminating in that comparison, and wondered why my life had to be the way it was.
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Why can they be out in public places– with 30 people talking at once, glasses clinking as they are placed onto tables, hardwood floors that bounce the sound around– and carry on a full conversation like nothing was happening? ​

It felt unfair.

​Especially when my difference in sensory processing caused rifts in my relationships and friendships. It wasn't uncommon that friends would slowly stop inviting me out, or choose not to go if they heard I was going. In their words, my sensory difficulties had a way of ruining the fun, or stopping the party early.

I distinctly remember two months ago, sitting at a dinner table with my partner and friends. My earplugs, usually kept in my purse, were somehow nowhere to be found.

The bartender dropped a glass below the bar; silverware clattered against the table. A group of young girls in the opposite corner of the room celebrated a birthday, clapping and cheering as candles were blown out. Someone walked behind us with a dog who barked happily at their owner.

"I need to use the restroom," I said, and grabbed my coat. "Be right back."

I stepped outside, and the cold winter air rushed by my cheeks. I hugged my coat closer, and sat down on the concrete steps outside the restaurant. The cold was also less than desirable, but I would take the cold over noise. Any. Day.

After enough time passed, which felt a little bit longer than would constitute a "bathroom break." I opened the heavy wooden doors to the restaurant again, and walked back to the table.

​Conversation passed like the buzzing of TV static. I smiled, nodded, and said things like "No way!" and "I love that–" phrases I could only hope were appropriate responses to their questions and anecdotes. 
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​​Eventually we paid the bill, and I walked back to the car, craving the quiet that would come between me and the barrier of the car door.
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​Having lived most of my life aware of certain differences in myself and others, I've always been tempted to compare my life to theirs in so many ways. The sensory differences were only the beginning- it was impossible not to notice it, and this only made it easier for me to justify other kinds of comparisons.

Things like careers, jobs, skills, and talents. It's easy to see someone play the perfect melody on the guitar or paint the perfect portrait and think that they have something special, something magic, that you are lacking by design.

​Something that feels as naturally occurring as genetics.

​That's why we often say, "You're so talented! I could never do that."

Why do we think we could never? 
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My parents put me in cello lessons from the age of four years old. When I performed for others, they would often say, 'You're daughter is so talented."

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My mom would respond, "Actually, it's not necessarily talent. It's how much time you spend sitting in front of a music stand, practicing and building skill."
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Bob Ross said something similar: Talent is pursued interest. Meaning, anything you're willing to practice, you can do.
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We see all of our practice runs, and theirs are behind a curtain.

​We feel all our falls so deeply, and take them so personally. It's easy to look at someone else who appears to be flying and say, "Why isn't that me?"

The truth is that we all have a mixed bag of failures and wins. Focusing on someone else's wins will not take away the pain of our failure. We believe somehow that if only our life was free of trial and error we would feel better, but I wouldn't be so sure.
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I wonder if there's a way we can recontextualize the urge to compare. I wonder what it would look like to take that natural impulse and take it for what it is: neutral observation.
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Perhaps comparison to others is in large part to blame for the fire behind my ambition. Everything I've ever wanted to achieve was sowed by the seed of seeing someone else do it first.

​They say comparison is the thief of joy, but they also often neglect to mention how comparison can sometimes throw a brick on the gas pedal of the phrase: "Can I do that too?"

What does the good side of comparison look like? In what ways can comparison empower us?
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Here are just a few ways I like to reframe comparison when I notice it happening:

• Comparison just shows me what's important to me.
  
• Comparison shows me what could be possible.
  
• Someone else doing it first is not a sign there' s no room for you. It's proof that there is already an audience for the work that you want to make.
  

The key to empowered comparison is the unwavering belief that life is not a pie.
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When others eat, I eat too. When they win, I win too. Their success is just proof there's more to go around. 

Allow comparison to open your world, not close it.
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Oftentimes, it's helpful to couple comparisons with statements of self validation and appreciation for yourself.

​When you notice someone excelling at something you're interested in doing as well, rather than focusing all your energy on them, you could allow that focus to land somewhere in between. Comparison can pave the path between where you are now, and where you want to go.

Know that there is no one on this earth that is more important than another.

​External factors like money, attention, likes, and follows are a game of smoke and mirrors to distract you from the real prize: The gift of being who you're meant to be. The fulfillment you will have in just being you– the version of yourself that no longer feels the need to fight, to prove they're worth it.
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Because believe me, you are already worth it. We're all just waiting for you to realize it, too.

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My Small Joy this week is my cucumber melon green tea from Kaleisia Tea Lounge in Tampa, FL. I ordered their loose leaf tea, and made myself a cup of iced tea this morning. It was absolutely what I needed to lift my spirits this Sunday morning.

​I hope you never stop looking for the Small Joys.

With love,
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Jen