I’ve danced—
frustratingly, frantically—
with Comparison.
Haven’t we all?
Stumbling forward
while glancing sideways,
measuring our pace
against someone else’s path.
The irony?
They’re doing the same.
We’re all blindly following
each other’s shadows—
a loop with no leader,
no truth, just echoes.
I used to call myself
a late bloomer.
By the time I entered
my first relationship,
my friends were already
raising babies,
planting roots,
buying homes
like they’d been handed
a blueprint for a “good life.”
So I jumped—
ahead of my timing,
into waters
not meant for me.
Trying to mimic milestones
meant to make me
“normal,”
“worthy,”
“on track.”
But when you dive into
a stream not yours,
the tide turns
unforgiving.
And the undertow—
it doesn’t just pull you under,
it makes you think
you belong there.
That’s how I found myself
clinging to an abusive relationship—
tight enough to look
like I was swimming.
I wasn’t.
I was drowning,
quietly.
Then came the shift—
a sacred pause,
an epiphany.
What if we don’t chase
comparison
because we envy?
What if we chase it
because we’re broken?
Because somewhere,
some moment,
some voice
told us we weren’t enough
on our own.
That we had to fit the mold—
or be forgotten.
But where did that voice
really come from?
For me, it looked like
a sibling I kept measuring against.
She wanted what I had.
And I let her comparison
become my own.
Oldest daughters—
we carry a crown
and a cross.
We go first,
we fall first,
we break ground
with bare hands.
I let her reflection
cloud my own.
But in truth,
her voice wasn’t the problem.
She was just the mirror
my demon chose.
And that demon?
It doesn’t die easy.
It waits.
It feeds.
It whispers.
Healing that—
uprooting that—
isn’t a one-night miracle.
Wounds take time to bloom.
They’ll take time to mend.
So each day,
I plant a seed.
Intentionally.
Patiently.
With trembling hands.
And with each sunrise,
I grow a little stronger,
a little more free.
Still—
the voice that fed my need
to keep chasing
won’t leave quietly.
And giving it up?
It’s terrifying.
Because who am I
without that echo?
Without the clutter
I once called comfort?
Opening the window—
letting light in—
can be blinding
when you’ve lived
so long
in someone else’s shadow.
But the more I let myself
feel the warmth,
see my own steps,
walk my own way—
the closer I get
to purpose.
And no,
it won’t look like theirs.
It was never supposed to.
We chant about being unique,
wear “different”
like a glittered slogan
to get likes,
to get seen.
But real uniqueness
doesn’t ask for attention.
It simply is.
I don’t need to shine
to be worthy.
I am worthy—
even in the quiet.
Even in the waiting.
Some of us
are called against the tide.
Artists.
Pioneers.
Poets.
We don’t fit
the structure’s rhythm
because we’re here
to write a new one.
If we don’t walk
our own way,
who will name the pain?
Who will sing the ache?
Who will cast light
for those still trapped
beneath the waves?
We are not late.
We are not behind.
We are different.
And that is not just okay—
it’s divine.
So let’s heal—
not by trying to match the pace,
but by accepting
we were made
for another path entirely.
And in that path,
our purpose waits.
J.N. Rose 