“I do not compete with anyone but myself.”
Competing and comparing caused me more pain than almost anything else when I was young.
There was always someone prettier, richer, or more successful. Someone with a better marriage. And there was always someone who had less.
Eventually, I realized that comparison is a race with no finish line. I began paying attention to who I was being in my own life. Instead of measuring myself against someone else, I asked: How did I do today? Is there someone I need to make amends to? If I’ve made progress, could I add another 10 percent?
I practiced this in small, practical ways. When I started walking on a treadmill, I did 20 minutes at 2.5 miles per hour. The next day, I added two minutes and increased the speed. Over time, I worked up to 30 minutes at 3.5 miles per hour and added a hill or two. I wasn’t trying to beat anyone. I was discovering what I could do next.
What I Learned About Fear
Changing a habit of thought began with observing my thoughts. I kept a notebook nearby and wrote down what was going through my mind. Then I asked myself, Is this true, or is it a “what if”?
I began to recognize worry as a habit I had learned from conversations I heard growing up. Much of what I worried about belonged to an unknown future. Other thoughts pulled me into the past: Did I do enough? Did something I said hurt someone, even if I didn’t mean it to?
When I wrote those thoughts down, I could see how easily worry became fear, and fear became sadness. Beneath it all was a familiar feeling: I am not enough.
The “Not Enough” Theory
For one week, I listened to how I was feeling and wrote it down. The pattern became clearer. I was expecting more from myself than I yet knew how to do or be. My self-criticism had grown louder than the reality of my life.
Looking through that lens, I could find proof everywhere that I wasn’t worthy, lovable, or enough. I could even make judgments about other people based on what I feared about myself.
The discovery was simple, though practicing it took time: the way my mind had learned to think was not the only way I could live.
I began returning to the present moment. That is where I can notice what is true, make a choice, and take the next step. Even my golf game improved when I took a few deep breaths, waited until I could hear the birds chirping, and then swung my club.
Being present also made it easier to listen. Other people had things to teach me when I was open enough to hear them.
I came to understand love as being concerned for another person’s concerns. In a close relationship, that concern needs to go both ways. I can care deeply about what matters to you, but if there is no room for what matters to me, I need to pay attention to that.
Learning Prudent Trust
Over time, I began thinking about three ways of approaching trust: naïve trust, distrust, and prudent trust.
Naïve trust asks too little of a person. Distrust can make it difficult to see what is actually happening. Both can become filters through which I view everyone I meet.
Prudent trust gives me room to observe. Do someone’s words and actions match? Does that remain true over time? I can be open while still asking questions and making a thoughtful decision.
Recently, an auto mechanic told me I had issues with trust because I asked questions about the repairs he recommended. But I ask questions to learn. I’ve found it useful to say, “I’m learning here. Please allow me to understand what you’re advising. I want to trust my decision to move forward.”
That is what prudent trust means to me. It allows me to stay open, use my judgment, and take responsibility for my choices.
I share these experiences in the hope that they open a possibility for you, too. See what happens when you observe yourself without comparing yourself to someone else. Notice when your thoughts take you into the past or an imagined future, and gently return to the moment you’re in.
Have you learned something about being present or becoming more resilient in your own life? I would love to hear about your experience.
