Learning to cope when everyone else seems to be doing everything right.
I am very guilty of comparing myself to others. And aren’t we all? Even when I should feel proud of myself, I can’t help but look to my right and bristle when I see someone doing “better” than me.
In resumes, clothes, looks, or jobs, I feel that I need to improve to catch up in an unspoken relay race. I suppose my heart is in the right place for wanting to enhance myself, but all the glaring and scowling chip away at my self-esteem over time. Nothing feels like the kind of hot, wet weight in your chest like envy does.
I’m not talking about the types of envy in romance comic strips (although, that certainly does count). I’m talking about the blistering burn of envy from a lifetime of sizing up the competition, the “never good enough” intrusive thought type of envy, the “my eyes are green, I eat my vegetables” type of envy. More importantly, I’m talking about the envy that comes in a free bonus ticket as a person of color.
Certainly, not every person of color feels this since many are properly taught to love their skin. But for many of us, all we wanted was to fit in to avoid mistreatment and, just maybe, be taken as seriously as our white colleagues, peers, employers.
It’s a thought that permeates most facets of life: people’s romantic “types” are often not people of color (and if they are, be cautious of fetishization), our paths likely weren’t bulldozed clear for us by influential or successful parents and grandparents, and we listen to questionable comments about race that are unprofessional to confront (and when you do, you’re told that you are sensitive and need to calm down). It’s not that people naturally have life easier when they are white, but they do not face the same obstacles as people of color when we are only trying to make it through the day in one piece.
In having those envious thoughts, I spend a lot of time from the outside looking in. I sit on the curb across the street and watch everyone schmooze through the window, imagining a life where someone walks by and removes these inherent difficulties from my shoulders so I can go inside.
The faces of fortune are so often white. At one point, I lived each day clicking through a projector’s PowerPoint slides in my head, watching the happy faces flicker by; then, I would look down at myself to wonder why I was so different, why no one achieving things on news media ever looked like me! What did they have that I didn’t? I thought that maybe I had to change so others would perceive me as invaluable.
Would being white make me more indispensable, more likely to be accepted for jobs or listened to when I speak up? Or, maybe even further, my fetal self should have accepted that Y chromosome. It’s a losing game, and even when I think I win, then another red game show curtain opens.
In the past, I mourned that I would never be like the lucky posers. But does that make them lucky? Does it render me unlucky that I am left to mimic their gestures and speech patterns as if I’m taking notes, so I can bet on just a little more respect? Who really is the supposed “poser” I hoped to confront? I can’t really answer any of those questions, nor can anyone.
They make happiness look so easy in a way that does not seem achievable, though we all have experienced our fair share of pain and loss. Maybe I’m no better at letting go of my grief than they are. But I struggle with moving on and finding better things, and that’s the bare-bones skeleton that differentiates us.
If I live my life angry at people for existing in a lifestyle that I once wished I was born into, I’m not living at all; nothing can change who I am, not even pushing myself into a suit that does not fit, sucking in at the lungs and throat to manage a disguise for a night.
Years ago, my sophomore year of high school, I wrote a poem titled “Envy.” I spoke about my desire to be just as beautiful as my white friends, hooked like vines around my yearning to be more than a second choice. Although I do not feel envy over physical appearances much anymore, I have felt envy as I watch my friends and family succeed in ways I wish I could. The emotion didn’t leave but changed forms. Now, I’m working to redirect the same emotion into my wellbeing, not focusing on others’ paths.
The comparative scale I once used did not exist. All that really matters is I am proud of myself (not even proud of my differences, because I refuse to compare any longer). I am going to have this skin for the rest of my life, so I should appreciate it even when others make me think I shouldn’t!
It’s an awful reality that we must bend, twist, and contort ourselves to gain approval, and it’s unfair that we live with those expectations set on us. Although the common lesson is that the only way to win is to not play, we often cannot escape playing.
So, instead, bring tools in your arsenal like an achievement journal or physical way to measure your growth; plus, make it a habit to be excited for people when they come to you with good news! Just because they’re accomplishing great things doesn’t mean that you won’t.
In a perfect reality, the only one to compare yourself to is your past, outgrown self – not people of another demographic, and certainly not an alternate, impossible-to-reach version of yourself.