You're Not Behind—You're Becoming

When I was younger, I believed life was a race—one filled with milestones you had to reach faster than everyone else.

At 18, I watched my friends get scholarships while I struggled to choose a major. I remember pretending to be excited at their achievements, but deep down, I was just scared—scared that I had missed a train that everyone else had boarded.

At 22, they were graduating, getting internships, and some were already flying off to Europe for master’s programs, their suitcases full of confidence and clarity. Meanwhile, I was still trying to finish a thesis I wasn’t proud of—rereading the same pages, doubting every word.

By 25, Instagram painted stories I couldn’t relate to—engagement rings catching sunlight, new jobs celebrated with office selfies, passport stamps from cities I couldn’t pronounce, and six-figure startup stories that sounded like fairy tales.

And there I was—still figuring things out, still living at home, still working a job that didn’t even require my degree. Most days I felt like I was moving, but in circles. No one said it out loud, but I felt it in the silence: I was behind.

My parents didn’t pressure me. My friends didn’t mock me.

But the loudest voice of judgment came from within.

Every scroll through social media fed that voice.

“Look at her—she’s already managing a team.”

“He just bought a house at 26.”

“She’s getting married in Tuscany. You’re still trying to reply to emails.”

The comparisons weren’t casual—they were crushing. Like invisible weights pulling down every effort I made to move forward. I started shrinking inside, doubting whether I’d ever catch up, unsure if I was even supposed to.

One evening, while out on a walk to clear my head, I passed a small community park. A group of children were running in a circle, laughing and gasping, some sprinting ahead, others skipping or walking. One small boy tripped and fell, and while the others rushed ahead, one little girl stopped. She crouched beside him, brushed off his scraped knee, and held his hand as they both walked—slowly, together—to the finish line.

That image struck me: Some kids were racing. Others were simply running. But none of them were counting wins. They were just living the moment.

That night, something inside me softened.

I sat down and wrote in my journal:

“Whose race are you trying to win?”

That question echoed inside me for days. I began noticing how often I compared my life with others—without knowing their context, their private struggles, or the sacrifices that came with their victories. I measured my value using someone else’s ruler. I judged my pace by someone else’s clock.

It was like comparing a sunflower to a pine tree. Both grow tall—but in completely different ways.

The truth is: life isn’t linear. It doesn’t move in the same direction or speed for everyone. Some peak early. Some take the scenic route. Some rise after multiple failures. Some succeed quietly. And others? They bloom when no one’s watching.

I decided to stop performing, stop proving, and just start being.

I took a break from social media. I stopped saying “should have” and started saying “I will.” I reconnected with what actually gave me joy—writing, mentoring students, and learning at my own pace.

I returned to school for a diploma in education. Not to impress anyone. Just because I wanted it.

I made peace with being “late” in the world’s eyes.

And the funny thing? Once I stopped racing, I started living.

I began celebrating small wins:

– Finishing a book I’d put off for a year.

– Waking up early, not to be productive, but to hear the birds.

– Meeting new people without feeling the need to prove myself.

– Eating dinner with my family without guilt for not having “made it” yet.

And one morning, I looked at my reflection and realized I wasn’t behind. I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Now, when I see others succeed, I still feel that familiar twinge—but I don’t let it turn into self-doubt. I turn it into inspiration. If they can grow, so can I. Just in my own time. In my own way.

Because your journey isn’t a race to win—it’s a path to walk. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Sometimes smooth, sometimes messy. But always uniquely yours.

Comparison is a thief of joy, yes. But more than that, it’s a thief of presence.

And I’ve learned—your presence is the most powerful thing you can give to your own life.

Closing Line:

Don’t compare your Chapter 2 to someone else’s Chapter 20.

You’re not behind.

You’re becoming.