Comparing Myself to Someone Online Almost Broke Me
I never thought a single Instagram scroll could twist my stomach into knots, but there I was, sitting on my old bedroom floor, phone in hand, watching Kunle smile at a networking event in New York while I hadn’t even figured out which contract job could pay my rent this month.
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My mom’s old curtains fluttered behind me, the same ones I’d hated as a teenager. Kunle had always been the “smart one” in school, the guy everyone quietly admired. And now? He was everywhere, shaking hands with investors, posting about his “first million-dollar pitch,” looking effortless.
I felt a tight, sharp sting in my chest, like my own life was shrinking with every post. And the worst part? I wasn’t just sad—I was furious. Furious at myself for not being him, furious at life for being unfair, furious at my friends for cheering him on. I later came to realise I had been measuring my worth against someone else’s highlight reel—and losing.
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I’m Cathy, 25, and for the past year, I’ve been living in this odd space between “almost made it” and “stuck.” I had a Plan B for my dream career, but I abandoned it when the timing felt off, thinking I could figure something better out.
Instead, I bounced between contract jobs, freelance gigs, and anything that could put food on the table. I never imagined I’d be 25, back in my childhood neighborhood, sharing a room with my mom again, just to save money.
It’s not that I regret moving back—there’s comfort in familiarity—but there’s also a quiet ache I can’t shake. Everywhere I look, I’m reminded that life moves on, whether I’m ready or not. Some days, I sit on the floor, listening to the street vendors call out, and I wonder if I’ve wasted the best years of my twenties.
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Living here again is a mix of comfort and embarrassment. I recognize the street corners where my friends and I used to laugh endlessly after school, but now, every passerby feels like a reminder of how little I’ve “achieved.” The houses that once seemed ordinary now look imposing, as if silently judging me.
At night, I lie awake listening to children playing football outside, their energy a stark contrast to my exhaustion and uncertainty. Some nights I tell myself it’s temporary, that soon I’ll move forward—but the fear of stagnation lingers.
Social media hasn’t helped. In fact, it’s made the ache sharper. Kunle’s Instagram account was a gallery of everything I wasn’t. He’s the kind of guy who graduated top of our class, landed internships abroad, and somehow became the poster child of “making it” before most of us even figured out our next step.
There he was, in crisp suits, attending networking events that felt galaxies away from my world of Excel spreadsheets and delivery gigs.
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Friends post about him constantly. “Did you see Kunle’s latest pitch?” “He’s in New York!” Even my mom occasionally mentions him casually, as if to remind me: “Remember Kunle? He’s doing well now.” I know she doesn’t mean to make me feel small. Still, every mention feels like a scoreboard I didn’t get a chance to play on.
It’s not just Kunle, though. Social media makes every success story feel loud and immediate. Former classmates traveling for work, old friends launching side hustles, neighbors posting promotions—they all seem to have a life that’s moving while I’m frozen in this loop of contract jobs and side hustles.
The more I see, the heavier the pressure feels. I try to remind myself that Instagram is curated, that people post the best moments, but deep down, it doesn’t change the sinking feeling inside. I begin to question if I’ve made the right decisions, if my Plan B failure was really a choice or a misstep.
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I’ve tried to distract myself—reading, journaling, even online courses—but the comparison keeps creeping back. It’s not just curiosity; it’s envy, bitter and gnawing. I lie awake some nights, scrolling through his life, wondering why his path was lined with opportunity while mine feels like a maze with no exit. I ask myself, repeatedly: “Why him and not me?”
Even my friends, those I used to feel closest to, seem distant when Kunle’s name comes up. I catch myself silently judging their excitement, thinking they don’t see the years I’ve spent hustling, the sacrifices I’ve made, the late nights at temp work that leave me drained and unsure of the future. I start keeping score, feeling that life is unfair, and I’m the only one noticing.
And yet, despite the ache, I can’t stop watching. It’s like a magnet pulling me into despair, showing me what I lack instead of what I have. It’s exhausting, but I can’t look away.
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It started small. A glance at Kunle’s feed, a slight pang in my chest. Then it became an obsession. I checked his posts multiple times a day, noting every new connection, every new achievement. I caught myself muttering under my breath when friends praised him. “They don’t see me. They don’t see my struggle.”
One evening, I sat in my mom’s kitchen, scrolling through Kunle’s photos again. My mom was chopping tomatoes, humming a song from the radio. “Cathy, you’ve been quiet,” she said.
“I’m fine,” I mumbled.
“Sure? You’ve been staring at that phone like it owes you money,” she teased, though her eyes softened.
I forced a laugh. “Just… catching up.”
But catching up wasn’t it. It was comparison. Every time Kunle smiled in a post, I felt smaller.
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Every time he shared a networking win, I felt behind. And it wasn’t just envy anymore—it was resentment. Resentment at my own reflection, at friends, at the universe that seemed to hand him every opportunity on a silver platter.
“Why him?” I whispered to myself one rainy afternoon, staring out the window as drops traced lines down the glass. I remembered high school: Kunle was always naturally talented, charming, a leader without effort. And now, post-college, it seemed effortless still.
Then, the resentment started seeping into my friendships. When Sade, my longtime friend, mentioned Kunle’s success again, I snapped.
“You act like his life is perfect!” I burst out. “You don’t see me struggling every day!”
Sade looked taken aback. “Cathy… I was just sharing news.”
“I know, but it’s everywhere! Every post, every mention—it’s like I’m invisible while he gets all the applause!” I sank into my chair, tears blurring my vision.
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The guilt followed quickly. I knew it wasn’t Sade’s fault. I knew I was allowing envy to dictate my reactions. But that didn’t make the feelings any less real.
Work didn’t help either. At my contract job, I felt every task was magnified, every mistake a reminder that I wasn’t succeeding like Kunle. I imagined him in the same role and felt instantly inferior.
I even began dreading social media entirely. Each scroll became a test of willpower. And yet, the lure was strong. I wanted to know what he was doing, how he was moving so fast in a world that seemed slow and punishing for me.
The tipping point came when my younger cousin, Iyanu, casually mentioned Kunle at a family dinner. “Did you see Kunle’s latest project? It’s huge!” His eyes sparkled with admiration.
I forced a smile. “Yes, amazing,” I said, but inside, my chest tightened, and I felt like shouting: “Why not me?”
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I hated myself for thinking that. I hated that I could allow someone else’s success to make me question my own worth. But I couldn’t stop. The envy had woven itself into my days, my thoughts, my identity.
It was an alumni meetup—one I hadn’t intended to attend. Honestly, I was only going to go to see familiar faces, maybe catch up with a few old friends. But then, there he was: Kunle. Same easy smile, same confident air. My stomach twisted. I prepared my best fake smile, ready for small talk and polite conversation.
“Hey, Cathy! It’s been ages,” he said, shaking my hand.
“Hi… Kunle,” I managed, my voice tighter than I wanted.
We fell into an awkward pause. I wanted to ask him about his work, but I also wanted to avoid the avalanche of feelings his success always triggered. Then he laughed softly.
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“You know, it’s not as glamorous as Instagram makes it look,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I didn’t exactly earn this on my own. My dad… he’s on the board at my company. He kind of fast-tracked my offer. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t be here without him.”
I blinked. Stunned. My envy, my bitterness, everything I’d felt—it was based on a lie I had created for myself.
“Wait… really?” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “Even now, I feel like an imposter sometimes. People assume I’ve earned everything, but I didn’t. I’m still figuring things out.”
He looked a little embarrassed and added, “I always felt weird about it. People just assume I’ve worked my way up like everyone else, but a lot of doors opened because of my dad’s position. Some days, I hate that people think I earned everything on my own.”
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I was quiet for a moment, absorbing his words. The sudden honesty made me feel a little foolish for all the resentment I had carried. All those late nights scrolling, the endless comparisons, the self-loathing—it was built on assumptions, not reality. Kunle wasn’t some perfect achiever; he was human, flawed, and had his own insecurities.
He chuckled nervously, running a hand through his hair. “Honestly, I admire people who make it on their own, like you and a few others from our year. It’s harder, but it feels real. I envy that sometimes, not the other way around.” I couldn’t help but smile.
For the first time, I saw him as someone relatable, not a measuring stick for my failures.
I felt my chest loosen, like someone had untied a tight knot. My assumptions, my comparisons—they were built on a story I had made up in my head.
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Kunle’s success wasn’t some unattainable measure of my inadequacy; it was partly inherited, partly hard work, and partly luck, just like anyone else.
We talked for a while, and I realized I’d been measuring my worth against an illusion. He laughed about awkward mistakes in meetings, shared how stressful networking events could be, and even admitted to moments of insecurity. In that conversation, I saw him not as an invincible achiever but as another human navigating life, just like me.
The revelation was freeing. The envy that had been gnawing at me for months began to lose its grip. I no longer needed to compare myself to him. Not because I was better, but because comparison itself was meaningless.
After that meetup, I deleted the Kunle alerts from my phone. No more obsessive scrolling, no more counting achievements like I was a scoreboard judge. I still admired him, of course, but admiration without self-doubt felt different. Lighter.
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For the first time in months, I felt a sense of calm. I realized I could focus on my own journey without constantly glancing sideways at someone else’s.
I started listing small goals for myself: finishing a freelance project, reconnecting with old friends, updating my CV, even waking up earlier to have a few quiet hours to write. Each small win became fuel, proof that I was moving forward on my own terms.
I poured my energy into something new: a blog dedicated to young graduates who carved their own paths, who made it through persistence, grit, and resourcefulness, without inherited connections. I interviewed friends, colleagues, even strangers I met in temp work who had fought their way to stability.
Every post became a testament to resilience, every story a reminder that success has many faces.
I also made an effort to reconnect with my mom beyond just sharing a room. I’d invite her to read my blog drafts, ask for her opinions, and even celebrate little milestones with her.
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Living back at home felt less like a setback and more like an opportunity. I began noticing the warmth in her support, the stability of the neighborhood, and the familiarity of childhood streets in a way I hadn’t in years. It gave me a renewed sense of belonging and grounded me in the present rather than in envy.
My own life started feeling different. I found joy in my own achievements, small and imperfect as they were. I realized that my journey didn’t have to mirror Kunle’s to be valid. I could carve my own path, measure my own milestones, and feel proud of them.
Even my friendships healed. When Sade brought up Kunle’s latest news, I could genuinely smile. “That’s great for him,” I said. And I meant it, without the bitter undertone. I’d learned to celebrate without comparing.
The neighborhood felt different, too. Living with my mom became a source of gratitude rather than frustration.
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I even began exploring freelance opportunities that I had ignored, attending networking events that once intimidated me, and reconnecting with old classmates—not to compete, but to learn and grow together.
I realized that not everyone gets a leg-up in life, and that’s okay. My struggle wasn’t a mark of failure; it was a badge of persistence. The universe doesn’t hand out success evenly, but it doesn’t mean I am less capable, less deserving, or less human.
By the time I wrote my first blog post, I understood: comparison is the thief of joy. Every scroll through someone else’s highlight reel had stolen moments I could have spent building my own story. And now, I was reclaiming them.
Life didn’t suddenly become perfect, but it felt mine again. And that was enough.
Comparing ourselves to others is an easy trap, especially when social media paints a polished version of reality. I learned the hard way that envy can eat away at our confidence, skew our perception, and make us feel inadequate—sometimes over things that aren’t even real.
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Kunle’s life looked effortless online, but in reality, he had advantages I didn’t know about, and insecurities he shared only in private.
The lesson is clear: measuring your worth against someone else’s highlight reel is meaningless. Everyone has their own journey, their own pace, and their own struggles. Success isn’t one-size-fits-all. Privilege, luck, persistence, and timing all play a role, and comparing ourselves to someone else’s curated reality only steals joy we could spend cultivating our own path.
Now, I focus on my own growth. I celebrate my small victories, pursue opportunities that align with my values, and channel my energy into creative projects that give me fulfillment rather than anxiety. Life isn’t a competition; it’s a personal journey.
So I ask myself, and anyone reading this: are you measuring your worth by someone else’s successes, or are you giving yourself the grace to create your own story? How much joy have you lost chasing a life that isn’t yours to live?
This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone’s privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you’d like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.
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