Everyone’s Winning. You’re Still Waiting. Here’s the Truth.

Let’s Be Honest: This stuff runs deep

It’s not just that she got the job.

It’s that she got the job you applied for.

The one you dreamed about.

The one you were qualified for.

It’s not just that he got married.

It’s that he used to complain about commitment—and now he’s posting wedding photos while you’re over here trying not to text someone who couldn’t even commit for a night out.

It’s not just the 10K months or the house.

It’s that while they’re posting wins, you’re sitting on your couch refreshing your email, wondering why your inbox is …so painfully quiet.

You smile. You say congrats.

You want to mean it. And maybe you do… for five seconds.

But the second you hit “Send,” the cold sets in.

You sit with your phone, feeling that hollowness in your chest. And to cope?

You binge watch, binge eat, self-harm, cry until you fall asleep, or sleep all day just to escape the ache of being so far from where you thought you'd be.

Because you’re not just sad.

You’re exhausted.

Exhausted from trying.

From waiting.

From clapping for everyone else when you don’t even know if your moment is coming.

And what makes it worse?

You feel guilty for feeling this way.

Like you’re ungrateful, or bitter, or weak.

But the truth is—this is the part we’re not allowed to talk about.

The part where you're doing all the "right" things and still feeling like you’re losing.

The part where it seems like everyone else is getting the results for your Hard Work.

How Comparison Quietly Wrecks You

Comparison is sneaky. You don’t mean to do it—but you do.

You’re just scrolling. You see someone launch a thing, announce a win, move into a condo, land a brand deal. And suddenly your heart sinks.

You're clapping, but you’re also spiraling.

You start thinking:

“Maybe I’m not working hard enough."

“Maybe I’m not meant for that kind of life."

“Maybe if I had just figured it out earlier…"

“Maybe I’m the only one left behind.”

You start questioning everything. You rewrite your whole story in your head:

Should’ve stayed in that job. Should’ve married that guy. Should’ve moved cities. Should’ve started that business sooner.

You replay your whole life like a crime scene, searching for the exact moment you ruined everything.

You’re carrying bricks of inner work while watching others sprint—and wondering why you feel so slow.

You've been doing “the work” for what feels like forever:

You’re journaling.

You’re in therapy.

You're saying no more often.

You’re not begging for love.

You’re building better habits.

You’re choosing peace over chaos.

And still—no partner, no breakthrough, no big “win.”

It’s easy to think:

“Am I healing wrong?”

“Why is this taking so long?”

“What’s the damn point?”

You start wondering if you should just stop caring.

Maybe go back to ignoring your gut, people-pleasing, settling, surviving.

Because at least then you had results, right?

But no one tells you this:

You can do everything right—and still not arrive where you thought you would.

You’re not falling behind—you’re healing timelines your ancestors couldn’t touch.

Here’s the part people forget to say:

You’re not just “not there yet.

”You’re also carrying chaos your peers aren’t.

You’re breaking generational patterns in silence:

You’re the first one in your family to go to therapy, not guilt-trip.

You’re learning to regulate instead of explode.

You’re trying to stop chasing emotionally unavailable people—because that’s all you ever saw.

You’re not marrying just to settle.

You want peace, not performative stability.

You’re trying not to parent yourself while healing from the way you were parented.

You’re building a business or career from scratch—no safety net, no rich uncle, no family blueprint.

You’re not just late. You’re running a race with weights no one can see.

You Feel Behind Because the World Told You You’d Be “There” By 30

Let’s be real:

By 25, you were supposed to have your career path.

By 28, you should’ve had the ring.

By 30, the wedding, the mortgage, the baby, the RRSP.

By 32, you should be “settled.”

Says who?

Family.

Social media.

Your childhood friend who bought a house and had a baby by 27.That one aunt who keeps asking if you’ve “found someone yet.”

It’s not always that you failed.

It’s that the bar was set by people who never had to heal what you’re healing.

But no, you’re not going backwards.

You didn’t come this far to choose crumbs again

You’re breaking cycles they never even noticed.

And that takes longer than just following a script.

Watching Everyone Else “Win” Can Make You Feel Like a Failure

Even if you’re genuinely happy for them, you still feel that bitter sinking in your gut.

You smile. You clap. You play the role.

But the ache doesn’t go away.

You're not proud of it, but it’s there:

Why them and not me?

What am I doing wrong?

Am I just not meant for this stuff?

You start spiraling:

Maybe I’m not smart enough.

Maybe I’m not attractive enough.

Maybe I’m too broken.

Maybe the universe skipped over me.

And the cruelest part?

You start imagining that the people around you—your friends, your cousins, your coworkers—see you as less now.

Like their success has elevated them above you.

You sit at the engagement brunch thinking:

“She probably thinks I’m a joke. She’s planning her wedding—I don’t even have a text back.”

But the truth is?

They probably haven’t changed.

You have.

You’re the one looking down on you.

You’re the one not honoring your timeline.

You’re the one forgetting the work you’ve done just to be in that room, smiling through it all.

And the hardest moment?

Is when you excuse yourself to the bathroom at engagement brunch—not because you have to go,

but because you’re fighting tears and you don’t want anyone to see the part of you that’s still grieving.

You think:

I shouldn’t be this upset. I should be happy for her. What’s wrong with me?

But there’s nothing wrong with you.

You’re just in a quiet season. A slow one. One that’s hard to explain.

And you’re human.

Of course it hurts.

My Anchor When the World Feels Too Fast

This isn’t Pinterest advice. This is what I do when the comparison hits hard:

I mute people. Not because they’re bad—but because I’m human.

I log off. Even for 12 hours. The silence helps me hear myself again.

I journal what I’ve moved through. Because it’s easy to forget.

I text someone who gets it.

No fixing. Just, “Can I say this out loud without feeling crazy?”

I remind myself: Just because no one is clapping doesn’t mean I’m not growing.

I whisper, “You’re still becoming.” Even when it feels like a lie.

Your season hasn’t passed—it’s just being carved with deeper hands.

One day, you’ll be the one with the news.

The job. The book. The launch. The baby. The marriage. The healing. The peace.And someone will see your post and think, Whoa. She’s got it together.

But they’ll have no idea what it took for you to get there:

The nights you sat in a car alone after someone else’s celebration, blinking back tears.

The fake smiles.

The muted stories.

The days you couldn’t get out of bed.

The quiet moments you whispered, “Maybe I’m not meant for more.”

They won’t know how long you waited, doubted, questioned.

They won’t know how often you wanted to just disappear from your own life.

But you’ll know.

You’ll remember how many times you thought, they must see me as less.

But the truth was—you were the one shrinking.

You were the one talking to yourself like you were a disappointment.

You were the one measuring your worth by timelines that were never yours.

You were the one imagining judgment that didn’t exist—because you couldn’t accept your own pace.

You were the one abandoning you.

But not anymore.

This chapter—this slow, unsexy, nothing-to-show-for-it-yet season—it’s not about catching up.

It’s about staying with yourself when everything in you wants to run.

It’s about loyalty.

To your journey.

To your growth.

To the life you want, even when it hasn’t arrived.

This isn’t punishment.

This is preparation.

This is you learning how to hold what’s coming.

The world will see the fruit.

But only you will know the root.

And when your moment comes—you’ll be ready to hold it.

And this time, it won’t be luck. It’ll be legacy.

Pictures by : Photo by Lee Jeffs on Unsplash

Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash

Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

Photo by Samuel Tsegaye on Unsplash

Photo by Josef Maxson on Unsplash

Photo by Finn IJspeert on Unsplash