I was at a party, standing in someone’s kitchen, listening to a woman talk about her second book deal. She was my age. Maybe younger. And instead of feeling happy for her—which part of me did, genuinely—I felt something else pressing underneath. A quiet whisper: She’s ahead. You’re behind. You should have done more by now.
I’d felt that whisper my whole life. During graduate school, when classmates published before me. In my thirties, when friends bought houses I couldn’t afford. Into my forties, when I measured my career against people who seemed to have sprinted past some invisible finish line I was still trudging toward.
I thought that it was based on something measurable. That I actually was behind, and if I just worked harder, caught up faster, achieved more—then finally, finally, I’d feel like I belonged in the same race as everyone else.
But lately, I’ve started to see it differently. The feeling wasn’t reality. It was a set of assumptions. Quiet ones. Ones I’d been carrying so long I forgot they were even there.
Here’s what I’m finally starting to understand.
1. I assumed everyone else had a clearer path than I did
I looked at other people’s lives and saw straight lines. They knew what they wanted. They went and got it. No detours or second-guessing. No years spent wandering through things that didn’t work out.
My own path felt like a tangle. Twists and turns, dead ends, do-overs. I assumed that meant I was doing it wrong.
But here’s what I didn’t see: no one’s path is as straight as it looks from the outside. The book deal woman at that party? I later learned she’d spent a decade writing manuscripts that were rejected or never sold. The friend with the house? She was drowning in a mortgage she couldn’t afford. The colleague who seemed to rocket through promotions? He’d been passed over for years before anyone noticed.
I was comparing my raw footage to their final cut. That’s self-deception, not comparison. And that comparison was never going to end well.
2. I assumed being behind meant I’d done something wrong
If I wasn’t where I “should” be by now, it must be my fault. I made bad choices. Didn’t work hard enough. Wasted time on the wrong things.
The assumption carried shame with it. Not just that I was behind, but that I deserved to be behind. That some failure of character or effort had landed me here.
I’ve started questioning that. What if the timeline I’m measuring against was never real to begin with? Was the “should” just a story I absorbed from a culture obsessed with early achievement? What if some of the detours weren’t mistakes but necessary ground?
I don’t have clean answers. But I’m learning to separate the feeling of failure from the fact of it. And the fact is, most of my so-called wrong turns actually taught me something. They just didn’t look like progress at the time.
3. I assumed other people weren’t struggling the way I was
Everyone else seemed to have it together.
Confident. Settled. Sure of themselves.
Meanwhile, I was over here constantly doubting, constantly second-guessing, constantly wondering if I was getting any of it right.
The assumption was isolating. It made me feel like the only one not keeping up. Like everyone else had been handed a manual I’d missed.
But almost everyone is struggling. It’s true, they’re just struggling in private. The confidence you see on the outside? Often it’s just a really convincing performance. The settled life? Sometimes it’s held together by things you can’t see.
I’m not saying everyone’s miserable. I’m saying the assumption that others aren’t struggling is almost always wrong. And believing it just keeps you lonely.
4. I assumed “ahead” was a real place
I didn’t realize this was an assumption at all. It was just… how things worked.
I spent years feeling behind without ever asking: behind what? Who decided this was the route? When did I agree that these markers—the degree, book, the house, the promotion—were the ones that counted?
The answer is harder to sit with than the feeling. Because it means admitting that I’ve been running a race I never signed up for. That the finish line I’ve been chasing was built by someone else’s priorities. That the people I envied weren’t ahead of me—they were just running a different course entirely.
The writer with the book deal? She’s on her path. The friend with the house? Her path. Neither is ahead of me. They’re just on different terrain. The only question that actually matters is: Am I on the path I want to be on? Not am I keeping pace with people who aren’t even running my race.
5. I assumed my pace was the problem
Everyone else seemed to be moving faster. Getting tenure younger. Buying homes sooner. Hitting milestones earlier. I looked at their pace and decided mine was too slow.
So I pushed. Worked harder. Tried to speed up. Burned out. And still felt behind.
I’m starting to wonder: what if my pace isn’t the problem? What if it’s just my pace? What if some people run sprints and some people run marathons and neither is better—they’re just different?
The people who seem ahead might be running a different race entirely. Comparing our speeds was never going to make sense.
6. I assumed being behind meant I’d never catch up
This was the despair version. Not just that I was behind, but that the gap was permanent. That everyone else had gotten such a head start, I’d spend the rest of my life trailing behind, always arriving late to my own life.
The assumption erased hope. Made effort feel pointless. Why bother if I’ll never get there?
But “there” doesn’t exist. And catching up isn’t the goal. Living well now—that’s the goal. The person ahead of me isn’t running my race. They’re running theirs. And my job isn’t to match their pace. It’s to find my own.
7. I assumed my value was tied to my achievements
I was valuable because of what I’d done. What I’d produced. What I had to show for my time on earth. If I wasn’t achieving enough, I wasn’t enough.
The assumption made every setback feel like a verdict. Every missed goal a judgment. Every comparison a chance to come up short.
I’m still untangling this one. Still learning that my worth isn’t the same as my output. Still practicing the idea that I’m valuable whether I publish or not, whether I succeed or fail, whether I’m ahead or behind. It’s slow work. But it’s the most important work I’ve done.
8. I assumed everyone else was keeping score the way I was
I thought other people were tracking my progress.
Noticing where I was on the timeline. Judging me for not being further along.
The assumption made me performative. I wanted to look successful, not just be successful. I wanted external validation to counter the internal feeling of falling short.
But almost no one is keeping score. They’re too busy worrying about their own lives. The person I thought was judging me is probably wondering if I’m judging them. We’re all just walking around hoping we’re okay, assuming everyone else has figured it out.
9. I assumed the evidence I was seeing was the whole picture
I thought I was just being honest with myself. Looking at the world around me and drawing realistic conclusions.
But I wasn’t looking at the world. I was looking for proof that I was behind. And because I knew exactly where to find it, I always did.
I was curating evidence. Not consciously. Not maliciously. Just the way brains do when they’re convinced of something—seeking confirmation, ignoring contradiction, building a case against myself piece by piece.
The whole picture was always bigger than I let myself see. There were people behind me, beside me, on completely different roads. There were versions of success I’d never even considered. But I wasn’t looking for them. I was looking for proof that I was losing.
The evidence was real. I just forgot to check what I was leaving out.
Editor’s Note: This piece is part of our “As Told to Bolde” series where we share personal stories from individuals we have interviewed or surveyed. For more information on how we create content, please review our Editorial Policy.
