There’s a quiet sentence I keep coming back to lately, one that doesn’t shout or demand attention. It just sits there, steady and honest:
The only comparison worth making
You one year ago
You today
Not the version of someone else you see online. Not the highlight reel that shows up uninvited on your screen when you’re already tired. Just you. Then and now.
A year sounds short when you say it out loud. Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. But when you actually live inside a year, it stretches. It carries ordinary days, heavy days, days you’d rather forget, and a few you wish you could bottle and save. It carries quiet growth that doesn’t announce itself until much later.
If you’re honest, the person you were a year ago didn’t know what you know now. They didn’t carry the same weight, wisdom, or weariness. They hadn’t had that conversation that changed something in them. They hadn’t sat in that silence long enough for clarity to form. They were still guessing in places where you’re now certain, and certain in places where you’ve since learned to soften.
Growth rarely looks like fireworks. Most of the time it looks like showing up again, even when motivation is low. It looks like choosing better words in a hard moment. It looks like walking away from something you once begged for. It looks like learning to pause before reacting. These aren’t things you post about. But they change you.
Maybe a year ago you were running. Chasing approval. Chasing speed. Chasing a version of success that looked impressive but felt hollow. Or maybe you were just trying to survive, putting one foot in front of the other and hoping no one noticed how tired you were. Either way, you’re still here. And that matters more than we give it credit for.
It’s tempting to measure progress by visible milestones. New titles. New roles. New homes. New numbers. But some of the most important growth never shows up on a resume. Learning how to rest without guilt. Learning how to say no without explaining yourself. Learning how to stay when it would be easier to disappear. Learning how to be kind to yourself on days when you fall short.
If you compare yourself only to others, you’ll always lose. There will always be someone ahead, louder, faster, shinier. Comparison like that doesn’t motivate; it drains. But when you compare yourself to who you were, the story changes. You start to notice the small wins. The patterns you broke. The fears you named. The boundaries you built. The grace you extended to yourself when you used to be ruthless.
You might not feel dramatically different. That’s okay. Growth doesn’t always feel like growth while it’s happening. Sometimes it feels like confusion. Sometimes it feels like standing still. Sometimes it feels like going backward before you move forward. But if you look closely, there are signs. You respond differently now. You value different things. You recover faster. You ask better questions.
And maybe, just maybe, you’re a little more honest than you used to be. With yourself. With others. About what you want and what you don’t. About what you can handle and what you can’t anymore. That honesty is progress, even if it came with some discomfort.
This isn’t about perfection. It’s not about becoming some ideal version of yourself who never struggles. It’s about becoming more you. More grounded. More aware. More aligned with what actually matters to you, not what you thought was expected.
So if today feels ordinary, don’t dismiss it. Ordinary days are where most of life happens. They’re where habits form and character takes shape. They’re where you quietly become someone your past self needed.
A year from now, you’ll look back at this version of you too. You won’t remember every detail, but you’ll remember how this season shaped you. You’ll see things you couldn’t see yet. And you’ll probably wish you’d been a little gentler with yourself.
The only comparison worth making isn’t meant to pressure you. It’s meant to ground you. To remind you that growth is personal, nonlinear, and deeply human. You’re not behind. You’re in progress.
And that’s more than enough.
Kenrick Vaz 