Her perfectly immaculate house.
Her gorgeous body.
Her 6 figure income.

I’ve done it. You’ve done it. Compare.
How do I stack up? Is there even one thing I can do better?

But it robs me of the pleasure in my children’s dance. It makes me forget the caress of my adoring husband. I forget the comfort of a warm, soft bed.

I begin to fixate on how much better you must be at everything. You’ve got it all figured out. You’ve got a fan base to prove it.

Then I get bitter. I imagine the things that must be wrong with your life in order to make myself feel better. You’re probably a terrible cook and a closet alcoholic.

These are the things I used to do to myself before I learned. The passion and pain of my life are mine alone. I don’t want yours. I have a love story to ruminate on, a safe place where I belong, I have this wonderful person that I am. I am enough.

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