My Story, Not Their Highlight Reel

​I heard this in a sermon recently and it's stuck with me.

“Comparison collects evidence about someone else’s life to tell a story about your own.” ~Chet Pete

Isn't that the silent, sneaky way comparison works? It doesn’t knock on your door and announce, “Hey, I’m here to make you feel less than.” No, it creeps in quietly, like a lawyer gathering selective evidence from someone else’s highlight reel while building a case against your life.

Steven Furtick once said, "The reason we struggle with insecurity is because we compare our behind-the-scenes with everyone else’s highlight reel."

I’ve done this. I STILL do this. I see a happy couple posting anniversary photos and feel the ache of my failed marriage. I watch a friend’s TED Talk and wonder why my words haven’t traveled further. I see fathers on vacation with their kids and question whether I’ve done enough, been enough.

And here’s the most dangerous part of it all: None of those stories are mine, but I let them shape mine anyway.

We all do it. Social media has made sure of that. We scroll through curated images and polished captions, not realizing we’re not just consuming content—we're unconsciously comparing it to our private, unfiltered lives. And the brain does something both fascinating and harmful: it fills in the blanks.

It assumes their joy is constant. Their love is easy. Their success is sustainable. And then it quietly whispers: Why not you?

A study out of the University of Copenhagen coined the term “Facebook envy,” pointing to the way we feel worse about our lives after seeing others' seemingly perfect ones.

But here’s some truth.

Their story doesn’t invalidate yours.

Their joy doesn’t erase your worth.

And your timeline isn’t late; It’s yours.

We were never meant to write our stories with someone else’s pen. We weren’t designed to measure the substance of our lives against someone else’s surface. God doesn’t do side-by-side comparisons when He calls us beloved.

He sees us.

Fully.

Completely.

Uniquely.

If I’ve learned anything in these last few years - through the heartbreak, the rebuilding, the parenting, the long walks - it’s that I rob myself of presence every time I compare myself to someone else’s progress.

I don’t need more evidence from someone else’s life to prove something about mine.

I need grace.

I need grounding.

I need to come home to MY story, messy and beautiful and still unfolding.

Home, where the only story I compare my story to is mine.

All. Mine.