Who is better?

Never compare yourself to others.

I know this piece of advice sounds so elementary. You can hear and read it almost everywhere. It’s our society’s way to affirm uniqueness alongside all those false and one-sided ideas of what beauty or success is all about. But while it is an overused statement, that doesn’t make it less true.

Never compare yourself to others.

I remember that I was almost envious of a friend who landed a higher-paying job. With my years of experience in what I do—not to mention the tears, the sweat and the hard work just to acquire that experience—I thought it was just so unfair. I had been looking and praying for that kind of opportunity for the longest time, for crying out loud. I thought I was working harder than she was. I was in a place that promised more stability and opportunities. I had better education and exposure, a better network, better mentors. Most importantly, I thought I have better career credentials all in all.

But then, it was unfair of me to put my curriculum vitae vis-à-vis hers just to validate the idea that I am better. What do I know? I don’t have the whole picture of what she’s doing, what she did, or what she went through. I am not God to declare that she is better than anyone else. Even God would say we are equal. In a human perspective, “who is better” is subjective. It is relative. We define it differently. Working with recruitment for years, I should know. Recruiters and employers define “who is better” according to their own standard—according to what adds value to them. Even if you have impressive experience, for example, if their judgment will say that you do not fit their culture, you are off the short list.

So, yes, what do I know when I don’t know the whole story? Or when the standard of beauty, of intelligence, or of who is “deserving,” is subjective?

For example, I studied music for a year. I enrolled in short courses in guitar playing, and saved and paid a big amount of money just to learn to play a song or two. I wasn’t ambitious. I didn’t even dream of joining recitals. I just wanted to make my life “more musical,” just like what Harold Crick wants when he decides to buy a guitar in the movie “Stranger Than Fiction.” I must admit, though, that I had been picturing myself on stage playing a nice song in front of an envious and impressed crowd.

However, when I started my lessons and realized, looking at my fingers’ calluses, that the journey won’t be easy, my dream was downplayed to just playing nice songs for personal pleasure inside my room.

I’ve seen people who could easily learn to play songs just by listening. They could easily learn the ropes like ABC. Some learn just by watching tutorial videos on YouTube. I tried that many times, but I didn’t have the patience. I couldn’t figure out those chord, finger, or strumming patterns by just watching. I kept rewinding, and ultimately stopped because it was painfully tiring. Others learn easily in church, through a mentor, while I couldn’t seem to find one who would be patient enough to teach me (well, I didn’t try to look for one, in the first place).

My point is, for others, everything is a cinch. I thought that if you want something bad enough, resources should come by easily. Your will would be enough to bring you there. But what do I know? What about talent? Other people probably have it, and I don’t. They probably have the right motivation. They probably have the right opportunities, upbringing and exposure. It is not necessarily my fault, or theirs. We are just wired differently.

Again, what do I know? Those people who I thought got it easily probably had their own stories of hard work, disappointments, sacrifices and challenges. I don’t have the right to be envious of them because I don’t know the whole story. I shouldn’t even have the nerve to feel that way because I can’t even look anyone in the eye and declare: “I gave my best.”

And the list is endless:

How come she now has a book and I don’t have one?

How come she is now on TV and I am not?

How come people tap her to speak, or sing, or dance, and not me?

How come she was chosen for the role and I wasn’t?

How come she got the promotion and I didn’t?

How come their business is so successful when ours isn’t even halfway there yet?

I have realized that it’s not right to look at others before I look at myself. Things were given to them first because probably I wasn’t ready. In the same way, it isn’t always right to blame myself when they get it first. There are many factors to success: Some just have the right network, the right opportunities at the right time, the right background, the right skills, the right words to say, the right setting, the right mood in a given circumstance, the right people to select them, the right jive…

When you’re not there, it doesn’t mean you’re not good; it only means it isn’t meant for you. While you don’t get some of the things you want and the other person does even though he or she doesn’t seem to be good enough, I know you’ll agree that you also receive things that you know you don’t deserve.

We have our own share of blessings, and we have our own share of crosses. We have our own share of milestones, and we have our own share of struggles. We have our own stories. Celebrate them. And celebrate others’ success. If you think about it, everything is grace. Be kind because everyone’s journey is not easy.

Success is subjective. Define your own. What makes you truly happy? Is it the money? The prestige? The exposure? The reputation? The number of friends?

Or is it the quality of your relationships? Your character? The things you achieved for others?

When I learned to define what success is for me, I started learning to simplify my life and to chase only those things that make me more alive. I still get envious, yes, but it is easier for me now to be truly happy for others.

Meanne Melad-Valenzuela, 27, is newly married to “the man of her dreams.” She is working as a marketing professional for a global brand and studying for her MA in communication research at the University of the Philippines Diliman.