Sorrows Sorrows Prayers

We renamed our restlessness, baptized envy, and called it “healthy comparison.” Beneath the polished phrasing is a quiet ache we’ve all felt, the pressure to measure our worth by someone else's pace

That phrase started off as a line from Queen Charlotte, a spin-off of Bridgerton. Delivered to Lady Danbury in a moment of hollow comfort.

She said it twice, “sorrows, sorrows”, as if naming pain could contain it. Then she ended with “prayers”, the only thing we ever really have when nothing else can be done.

The internet caught it and ran. Turned it into a meme, a mood, a coping mechanism. We say it to friends now, half-laughing, fully relating. When plans fall apart. When life feels delayed. When rejection letters pile up like unopened bills.

When the people we started with seem to be on some escalator we can’t find.

sorrows sorrows prayers.

It’s funny until it’s not. Until it becomes the most honest summary of how we feel: a cocktail of helplessness, mixed with humour and quiet hope. And beneath it? That old, familiar sickness: Comparison.

It shows up when you least expect it. Scrolling past someone’s “I’m excited to announce…” Seeing photos from a conference you weren’t invited to. Reading one more LinkedIn thread about hyper-productivity before 7 a.m.

And then your brain whispers, ‘You’re behind.’ Even if it’s not true, it feels true. And in our world, feelings often beat facts.

It asks, "How am I really doing?" Only… it doesn’t really want the answer. It wants a benchmark. So you look to your left. You look to your right. That’s how you “measure”. That’s how we’ve all learnt to measure.

Since childhood, the world has introduced us to this tool. “Who came first?” “Is your mate not doing the same exam?” “If they can do it, what’s your excuse?”

Class rankings, sports scoreboards, LinkedIn announcements, award ceremonies… It’s all laced with the same message: "Your value is best understood in comparison to someone else's."

But we’ve learnt to baptize this sickness. We call it “healthy comparison”. We tell ourselves it’s fuel. That we’re not jealous, just inspired. That it keeps us striving, focused, and hungry.

And maybe sometimes that’s true. But most times? It’s a silent kind of erosion. Not loud enough to break you. Just enough to keep you unsettled. Just enough to rob you of joy.

It doesn’t matter how often we say, “Run your race.” We still look left. We still look right. We still try to gauge progress based on who’s clapping the loudest and posting the most.

Photo by Vanesa Giaconi on Unsplash

Healthy comparison sounds almost noble, doesn’t it? Like a motivational quote dressed up in a gym shirt. As if jealousy dressed in a suit suddenly stops being jealousy. As if the ache in your chest is more acceptable if you call it drive.

But let’s be honest: How often has comparison actually made you better? Not perform better. Be better. More grounded. More whole. More grateful.

Because here’s what we rarely admit: Comparison is often less about where we’re headed and more about who we’re trying to beat there. It’s a race we never agreed to run, toward a finish line we didn’t draw, with people who didn’t even know they were our competition.

And still, we dress it up. We call it accountability. We say it helps us dream bigger. We claim it inspires us. Maybe sometimes it does. But most times? It just makes us feel smaller.

The problem isn’t ambition.

It’s that comparison is rarely rooted in clarity. It’s a moving target. It’s looking at someone else’s chapter ten and wondering what’s wrong with your chapter three. It’s forgetting that grace doesn’t shout. It doesn’t always come with hashtags or press releases.

So what then?

The truth is, we don’t compare just because we’re flawed. We compare because we’re human. It’s how we’ve evolved, trying to place ourselves in a world that never stops moving. But if we’re honest, the pain of comparison often stems not from lack but from forgetting. Forgetting our own path. Our own pace. Our own portion.

So maybe the goal isn’t to cure comparison. We’re not supposed to be immune to it.

So what if we remembered? That our story isn’t missing pieces, just waiting for pages.
That someone else’s win doesn’t cancel our grace. That our timeline isn’t broken just because it doesn’t look like theirs.

Maybe the work is to name it when it shows up in our bodies, in our moods, in the subtle shift in how we see ourselves.

And then gently remind ourselves:

This path is mine. These steps are mine. And my pace is not broken just because it doesn’t look like theirs. Because no amount of comparing will bring peace.

Only remembrance will. Of who you are. Of how far you’ve come. Of the fact that delay is not denial and becoming has never been a race.

So when next you hear or say: sorrows, sorrows, prayers.

Be kind to add or remember: patience, gratitude and a quiet kind of faith.

Here’s to anchoring deeper in the truth of your own becoming. Because the only person you really need to be better than is the version of you that forgot how far you’ve already come.

See you in my next letter,
Mustapha