Comparison Is The Thief Of Joy

Pauline was her name. More than likely still is as she is about 65 years old now and the last time I saw her – some 17 years ago – she seemed in good health.

When it comes to my minimal fashion sense – she was my first tutor.

Pauline lived next door to me for about five years. My mother and I had moved so many times in my life that by the time we got to this location in “bottom” Pembroke Hall, I was hesitant of getting acquainted with anyone.

It was difficult not to get to know Pauline though. Tall, elegant and one of the first black women with bald head that I ever met – and I was mesmerized and immediately wanted to cut off my then flowing and very much permed locks.

If her looks took your breath away – her sashay would give you a heart attack!

We were poor – as far as my mother would insist – but it did not matter to me, until I met Pauline. Her sense of style was out of this world. She wore the most gorgeous dresses and skirts imaginable. 

There was no way under the sun my mother could afford to get me anything nearly as beautiful. My clothes were handmade – not from the department stores – and the fabrics were bought at the “pound store.” Those are fabric retail stores where you could purchase material not by the yardage but its weight. You got more for less but the quality was questionable.

Our resources left us without question – it was what we could afford. My ‘aunt’ was the seamstress and my dresses were made on a barter system. My aunt was not the best housekeeper, so my mother would do chores for her in return for her making our clothes.

Those were the years that my ability and propensity to compare my life with those around me heightened. I can recall checking out Pauline’s clothes, touching the labels as if it were silk. Very few items in my ‘wardrobe’ had labels, only my underwear and they were certainly not designer labels.

The comparisons would run beyond Pauline and clothing. Over time, just about everything was subject to comparison. With that came my feeling of unworthiness, shame, guilt but surprisingly there also came a strong desire to achieve.

“Comparison is the thief of joy,” Theodore Roosevelt is reported to have said and I had none for a long while. Joy, that is.

I compared everything and everyone to what I had or did not have; where I was in life and who was with me. It was sad.  Comparing myself was a chronic illness until I got cured. Thank God for break-ups!

Some people shy away from the end of a relationship and I was one such, particularly one that lasted for umpteen years. Brought to my belly, crawling and sliding down the slope into deep depression, it finally came to me:

1.  Stop the comparison – it is what it is (Acceptance)
2.  Be the best at whatever I am in that moment (Embrace)
3. No one can do me like me (Love)

Were those three lessons easy? Of course not! It would take a few years and, sadly, a marriage for me to finally come to accept myself for all that I was and had become. Only then was I able to step into the shoe, the dress, the pantyhose and yes the big girl panties that were made just for me.

Claudette

The greatest transformation and joy arrived and wrapped her arms around me when I learned to love myself – flaws and all.

You too can stop letting comparison steal your joy. Your process might be different from mine but at the root will be self-love. No one can teach you that. I or others may be able to model it for you. I am more than willing, so do feel free to drop me a line, inbox me on my coaching page and do subscribe to this blog.

Have a wonder-filled rest of the day!

Namaste.