We keep measuring our lives against everyone else's

You finish something you were quietly proud of — a small win at work, a decent meal cooked, a photo you liked — and within minutes the mind has found someone who did it bigger, faster, better. The pride leaks out. Nothing about your achievement changed; only the yardstick did. This is comparison, and it is one of the quietest thieves of an ordinary good day.

It is not new, and it is not a personal flaw — though the endless feed of other people's best moments, set against your ordinary middle, has poured petrol on it. The old Indian texts had a clear eye for the sting of seeing someone else do well. They treated envy and comparison not as sins to be ashamed of, but as a kind of suffering we quietly do to ourselves.

The interesting claim they made is this: comparison does not actually measure your life. It measures the distance between your life and a story in your head — and that distance can hurt you no matter how good your real life is. Change the measure, and the same day feels completely different.

Look closely at the moment comparison bites, and you find something odd: you have stopped looking at your own life and started looking at it through borrowed eyes. The food was fine until you imagined how it would look beside a friend's holiday feast. The job felt steady until the reunion where everyone seemed to be racing ahead. The thing itself did not change. You swapped your own eyes for an imagined audience's.

The Gita points straight at this with the idea of svadharma — your own path, your own work — set against paradharma, someone else's. In a famous line Krishna says it is "better to do your own duty imperfectly than another's perfectly" — shreyan svadharmo vigunah (Gita 3.35) — and warns that walking someone else's road is "full of fear."

Read it not as a rule about caste but as counsel against living by a borrowed measure. The moment your standard becomes "am I keeping up with them," you are on a road that was never yours, and fear walks beside you the whole way — because on someone else's road, there is always somebody further ahead.

The texts did not just diagnose comparison; they offered a quiet retraining of attention. Patanjali gives a precise tool in a single line: meet the happy with friendliness, the suffering with compassion, the good with gladness, and the rest with an even mind (Yoga Sutra 1.33). The word for that gladness at another's good fortune is mudita — and it is the exact opposite of envy. Where comparison shrinks you when someone else wins, mudita expands you. It is a skill you can practise: actually feeling glad when a friend succeeds, instead of measuring yourself against them.

The same school names another antidote: santosha, contentment. "From contentment comes the highest happiness" — santoshad anuttamah sukhalabhah (Yoga Sutra 2.42). Not the contentment of giving up, but of fully having what you already have, instead of leaking it away into comparison.

Kabir and the bhakti poets sang the same in plainer words: the one who is content is rich, and the one who always wants more stays poor however much he owns. Different voices, one point — the cure for comparison is not winning the race. It is stepping off the track.

Here is the trap that makes comparison so endless: there is always someone ahead. Win the promotion and you meet people two levels up. Buy the car and a better one appears in the next lane. A mind that lives by comparison has signed up for a race whose finish line keeps moving — so the relief it promises ("once I get there, I'll feel like enough") never actually arrives.

Worse, comparison usually rigs the contest. You measure your full inside — your doubts, your tiredness, your unglamorous ordinary Tuesday — against someone else's polished outside, the version they chose to show. It is your behind-the-scenes against their highlight reel. No wonder you lose; the match was never fair.

And there is a subtler cost the texts noticed. Comparison pulls your attention out of your own life and parks it in someone else's. While you are busy measuring, you are not living — not tasting the food, not present with the person in front of you, not doing the work for its own sake. The envy does not only sting; it quietly empties the hours. The point is not that ambition is bad. It is that a life spent looking sideways never gets fully lived.

The first misreading is that dropping comparison means dropping ambition — that to be content you must want nothing and achieve nothing. But contentment and effort are not enemies. The Gita's whole teaching is to work wholeheartedly while letting go of the anxious clutch on results. You can build, strive and grow; you simply stop using other people as the ruler. The fuel changes from "beat them" to "do this well."

A second myth is that comparison is always motivating — that without it we would all go soft. Sometimes a rival does sharpen us. But more often, measuring against others breeds either quiet despair or quiet arrogance, and both pull you off your own path. Inspiration learns from someone; comparison competes with them. From the inside they feel completely different.

The last myth is that mudita — being genuinely glad for others — is naive, or that it means pretending. It is neither. It is a trained response, and it is selfish in the best way: the person who can be happy at others' happiness has multiplied the number of things that can bring them joy, instead of turning every friend's good news into a fresh wound.

The deepest thing comparison does is take you away from your own life and hand it to an imaginary scoreboard. So the way back is just as simple, if not easy: keep returning attention to what is actually yours — your work, your people, your ordinary day — and let other people's lives be theirs.

This matters because the alternative is a kind of slow theft. Every hour spent measuring is an hour not lived. The texts are not asking you to pretend everyone is equal, or that you have no goals. They are pointing at something freeing: your life cannot be weighed on someone else's scale, because no one else is living it.

Mudita and santosha are not lofty states reserved for saints. They are small daily muscles. A flicker of real gladness when a colleague is praised. Noticing, before the meal goes cold, that it is enough. Catching the borrowed eyes, and quietly taking your own back.

So the lesson is not "never look at others." It is gentler: look, learn, even admire — but do not move into their life and abandon yours. The next time the comparison-sting comes, you might just notice it, smile a little, and come home to the day you are actually in.