Comparison games

For a long time, I was convinced I was ahead of my peers. I was an intelligent boy who was quick to pick up reading, writing, and doing math. Extremely curious, I also knew more than most of my classmates. I believed I was more mature as well. After all, I had lived through the illness and loss of my mother before most children even considered losing their grandparents. My image of being ahead was reinforced down the road. I was at the top of my class in secondary school and—later—university. Even then, I was one of the few people who had lost a parent. It wasn’t until the final stages of my PhD that my self-image began to show its first cracks.

I met many bright minds during my PhD. Some were exceptionally skilled at mathematics or had a keen physical intuition. I looked up to these people. Nonetheless, by becoming an expert in my field, I could initially avoid comparing myself with them. As time progressed, I realized I was less productive than some of my fellow scientists. I needed more time to conduct research, and I authored fewer scientific publications. At first, I was reluctant to interpret these observations. By the time PhD students around me began receiving awards and research grants, there was no denying it anymore. I wasn’t ahead of my peers.

The first signs that my self-image didn’t match reality could have been seen at least a decade earlier. I had just finished secondary school and was looking for studies to enroll in the next year. I didn’t look forward to leaving my parents’ house and living on my own, though. The problem was that the closest university was two hours away, and the prospect of traveling that distance twice a day wasn’t very appealing either. In the end, the distance made me move out. In retrospect, I’m happy I lived in the city where I studied. Otherwise, I couldn’t have taken part in evening activities or built up a social network. Besides, becoming independent would have taken longer. Still, I moved out reluctantly.

During my studies, I had quite a few friends who were older than me. At the time, this made me feel special. I saw having older friends as a sign of my maturity. Looking back, I have a different view. Among friends, I behaved like a little brother relying on the protection and experience of his older siblings. If I had paid attention, I might have noticed another pattern. Despite living on my own, I was still looking up to my father. I’m not blaming anyone for this behavior. You’d be hard-pressed to find a boy who doesn’t think his dad is a superhero. Given the loss of my mother, I also think it’s understandable that I needed my father to be the man who knew and solved everything. But I didn’t outgrow this view until my early thirties.

Clearly, I had trouble seeing that I wasn’t ahead of others. However, I didn’t only believe I was ahead. Paradoxically, I began feeling that I was falling behind as well. Unlike many of my friends, I don’t own a car. I can’t afford a house. I’m not married. And I don’t have children. Even if I am an adult, I haven’t always felt like one. Obviously, the feeling of being behind was at odds with my view that I was ahead. So, I tried to justify my life situation. I traveled the world. I pursued a PhD. I immigrated to another country.

It was a constant strain to uphold the belief that I was ahead of other people and argue against any suggestion of being behind. Still, I didn’t reconsider my self-image until reality forced me to. I only began to see that I wasn’t ahead of my peers when they made it into new positions in academia—and I hadn’t. I had to learn how other adults approached their parents before I realized I wasn’t more mature. Then, I started recognizing past events in which I hadn’t been more developed than others. I didn’t know what to make of my new perspective on the past, though. Other than arguing against it, I didn’t know how to deal with feeling behind either.

It wasn’t until I looked at my childhood that the pieces fell into place. I had come to believe that my knowledge and skills made me better than my classmates. I was convinced I was better than my peers because of my experience with loss and grief. In other words, I equated being ahead of others with being better than them. I fully understand my strategy. My mother had been ill for years. I was devastated by losing her. Thinking I knew more than my peers gave me some relief. Believing that my loss gave me an edge over others provided purpose to an experience that seemed so pointless.

My comparison games kept me afloat. I relied on them for my survival. But do they still make sense? No. When I was young, I threw myself into a few subjects in school, which I may have been more skilled at than average. Today, I’m familiar with thousands of activities that I’m not excelling at. Similarly, loss and grief may have given me experiences other children wouldn’t have until later. But they also interrupted my childhood in ways that are still affecting me. Besides, I don’t see why any idea of being ahead—whether true or not—would make me better than anyone else.

Taking apart the logic behind my childhood’s survival strategy was a helpful, but rather rational step. Ultimately, I benefited more from considering the following question: Does my survival strategy still serve me? And, no, it doesn’t. Comparing myself with you is draining my energy and making me unhappy. After all, I’m not better than you. But I don’t need to be either. I’ve found new ways to deal with my grief.