COMPARISON, PEACE, AND THE LONG GAME

 

There’s a quote I often come back to: “Comparison is the thief of joy.” It’s one of those truths that creeps into our lives quietly, stealing contentment before we even realize it’s gone.

We live in a world where it’s impossible not to notice what other people are doing. Every scroll through social media reminds us of someone else’s highlight reel: an award won, a new house purchased, a vacation by the beach, or even just a beautifully edited photo. At first, it looks harmless, even inspiring. But over time, comparison takes root. What was once admiration becomes dissatisfaction. What was once a celebration becomes self-doubt.

Instead of enjoying what we already have, we convince ourselves it isn’t enough. We start chasing what looks shiny, desperately trying to keep up with the Joneses. But here’s the truth: the Joneses don’t even exist. They’re an illusion, a carefully curated story. Chasing them is a race without a finish line.

And this isn’t just about wealth or lifestyle; it runs deep, especially for creatives.

The Artist’s Struggle with Comparison

Being an artist, I know this reality all too well. You put your heart into your work. You spend hours sketching, painting, designing, or creating something you believe has meaning. Then you post it. You wait. A few likes trickle in. Maybe one or two comments if you’re lucky.

And then you scroll.

That’s when you see another artist’s work; sharper, brighter, seemingly more profound. Their posts get hundreds, sometimes thousands of reactions. They’re being recognized, celebrated, and even commissioned. Meanwhile, you start asking yourself: Why not me? Is my work even worth it? Am I really good enough?

The harsh truth is, art is not a meritocracy. The best work doesn’t always get the spotlight. Sometimes it’s luck, timing, or simply the right person sharing it with the right audience. Watching others “make it” while your work goes unnoticed can feel crushing. It’s a weight that makes you question not only your talent but also your purpose.

And yet, here’s the secret: the only way through is persistence

Short-Term Praise vs. Long-Term Peace

Chasing recognition feels good in the moment, it’s that rush of short-term praise. But it fades quickly. The likes stop. The applause dies down. And then what? If your value rests only on that fleeting attention, you’ll constantly feel empty.

The real secret to true wealth is not applause, not fame, not even sales. It’s peace. It’s the quiet knowing that your work matters, even if the world doesn’t recognize it immediately. It’s creating because you love the process, because your art heals you, challenges you, or allows you to speak when words fail. That kind of wealth lasts.

The Persuasiveness of Pessimism

Another thing I’ve noticed is how different optimism and pessimism sound to our ears. Pessimism is always more persuasive. Someone says, “That’ll never work” or “It’s too risky,” and immediately, we believe them. It sounds wise, almost protective.

Optimism, on the other hand, often sounds like a sales pitch. “Keep going, it will pay off one day” feels vague, naïve, and sometimes even delusional. But the truth is, pessimism lives in the short term. It tells you what can’t happen tomorrow. Optimism, however, lives in the long term. It doesn’t promise days. It promises decades.

Think about it: every artist who’s ever been remembered wasn’t validated in a week. Some weren’t even celebrated in their lifetime. But the impact of their work grew over the years, decades, even centuries. Optimism is the quiet belief that if you keep showing up, your work will find its place.

And when I reflect on this, I’m reminded of God’s timing. “For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). This speaks directly into my word of the year, Providence. It’s the assurance that God’s timing is never rushed, never delayed, but perfectly aligned with His purpose for us.

Playing the Long Game

So where does this leave us? It leaves us with a choice.

We can choose comparison, short-term praise, and pessimism, and live in cycles of frustration and burnout. Or we can choose peace, the long game, and the kind of optimism that sustains us through dry seasons.

Choosing peace doesn’t mean settling. It means refusing to let external validation dictate your worth. Choosing optimism doesn’t mean ignoring the struggle. It means accepting that the best things, whether success, recognition, or mastery, take time.

And playing the long game means trusting that what you create today may not be appreciated tomorrow, but it still matters. It’s still planting seeds, and eventually, seeds grow. As Paul reminds us, “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” (Galatians 6:9). That’s the promise of long-term gain; the harvest comes, but only after patience, consistency, and faith.

Final Thoughts

Comparison will always be there, whispering in the background. Recognition may come slower than we hoped. And pessimism will often feel more convincing than optimism.

But in the end, joy is found in persistence. Wealth is found in peace. And greatness is found in the long game.

So to every artist, creator, or dreamer wondering if their work is worth it… Yes, it is. Even if it doesn’t look like it today. Especially if it doesn’t look like it today, because your art isn’t just for applause; it’s part of the story you’re building.

And stories, like masterpieces, are best told over time.

 

GOD KNOWS AND THAT’S ENOUGH!

 

Lately, I’ve been realizing something about how God works in our lives: He gives us just enough. Not too much that we get comfortable and forget Him, and not so little that we’re completely hopeless and abandoned. Just enough to keep us leaning on Him, remembering that we can’t do it all on our own. And you know what? God knows, and that’s enough. I actually have those exact words written on my manifesto hanging on my wall, and the older I get, the more I see the truth in them.

That phrase became real to me in a very personal way. For a long time, I had this bad habit of overexplaining myself, always trying to defend who I was or prove my truth, especially when people thought I was lying or chose not to believe me. It used to drain me, because no matter how much I explained, some people had already made up their minds. Then I started telling myself, “God knows, and that’s enough.” Whether people chose to believe me or not, it didn’t matter anymore. I know my truth, and more importantly, God knows my truth. And with that, I’ve found peace.

When I look back, I notice how life always seems to present a new challenge right after a victory. You think you’ve overcome one mountain, only to find another waiting ahead. At first, it feels unfair, like, why can’t I just breathe for a while? But then it hits me: if I had everything handed to me with no struggle, no waiting, no uncertainty, I’d probably stop praying. I’d stop asking. I’d stop depending. And I know I’m not alone in that.

The Bible tells us that God is a “jealous God” (Exodus 34:14). He wants our attention, our love, our dependency. Not because He’s insecure, but because He knows that when we turn away from Him, we turn toward destruction. So sometimes that “just enough” is His way of keeping our hearts close, teaching us to trust Him with tomorrow instead of drowning in the false security of today.

It reminds me of the Israelites in the wilderness. God provided manna for them daily, but notice how it was only enough for that day. If they tried to store it up, it spoiled (Exodus 16:19–20). Why? Because God wanted them to depend on Him every single day. And honestly, isn’t that still the story of our lives? We worry so much about where our next meal will come from, how the bills will be paid, or who will provide for us. Yet Jesus reminds us in Matthew 6:26 that if God takes care of the birds of the air and feeds them, how much more will He take care of us? If He can provide for the birds and the bees, then who am I to doubt His provision? He reminds us daily that His mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22–23).

And here’s something else I’ve come to realize: deep down, when you stop and think about some of the things you once prayed for, you’ll see that you’re already living in an answered prayer. God gave you what you wanted, but because we are constantly asking for the next thing, we often forget that we’re blessed according to His timing and His understanding of what we needed in that season. That’s why we must strongly believe that everything happens for a reason, and always in God’s perfect timing (Ecclesiastes 3:1). At the end of the day, we can rest in this truth: God knows, and that’s enough.

Now, let me go back to a conversation I had with my brother that really made me think. He said, and I quote, “Blessings come with a curse.” At first, that sounded heavy, almost negative. But as he explained further, it began to make sense. A blessing, by nature, is good, but it also comes with responsibilities, sacrifices, and challenges that can feel like a curse if we’re not prepared for them. You pray for a better job, and along with it comes longer hours and more stress. You pray for influence, and along with it comes criticism and pressure. You pray for love, and with it comes sacrifice and responsibility.

It’s not that the blessing itself is bad, it’s that every blessing stretches us. And stretching can sometimes feel like breaking. That’s why Luke 12:48 is so true: “To whom much is given, much will be required.” What my brother meant is that we have to recognize this balance and learn to choose contentment. We can’t just expect the good without the weight it carries. So the key is being happy with what we have, trusting God’s wisdom, and knowing that even when blessings feel heavy, they are still gifts from Him.

That’s why it’s so important not to lose yourself in the middle of the sacrifices you make. Society loves to glorify sacrifice, calling it noble, and yes, there’s honor in serving others. But if in the process you neglect yourself, your health, your soul, what good is that? Even Jesus, who gave everything, still took time to rest, to pray, to withdraw from the crowds (Luke 5:16). He showed us that self-care isn’t selfish; it’s necessary to keep going.

So here’s where I’ve landed: God gives us just enough because He knows us better than we know ourselves. Just enough to remind us to pray. Just enough to keep us grateful. Just enough to stretch us without breaking us. Just enough to make us realize that He is the source, not us.

And when the blessings feel heavy, or when the sacrifices feel like too much, maybe that’s the moment to pause and take care of yourself. To sit with God, to rest in His presence, and to remember that He is still good, even when the “just enough” doesn’t look like what we wanted.

Because the truth is, God’s “enough” has always been enough. As Philippians 4:19 says, “And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.” Not all your wants. Not all your plans. But your needs, your real needs, and that’s more than enough.

 

LOVE, PASSION, AND THE SILENCE BETWEEN

Love is supposed to be gentle and kind, but is it really? It does not come with instructions or a filter that makes it easier to swallow. Love exposes us, lays us bare, and often shames us mercilessly. We can pretend to control it, to manage it, to dress it up with sweet words and forced smiles, but the truth is harder to hide. Love lives in our thoughts. It presses against the walls of our hearts, demanding to be felt, even when we fight against it. And the more we resist, the louder it seems to echo inside us.

We often convince ourselves that moving on is simple. We tell ourselves time heals, that new beginnings erase old endings, and that we are strong enough to outgrow what once consumed us. But is this true, or is it only what we tell ourselves so we can keep functioning? Moving on sometimes feels less like healing and more like survival. We pile our emotions one on top of the other, hoping fresh experiences will bury the past. A new friendship, a new love, a new routine. Yet the silence always catches us. In the quiet, memories resurface. They linger like shadows, shimmering at the edges of thought, reminding us of what we have tried so hard to forget.

Maybe the truth is that we never fully move on. Maybe love is not meant to leave us. It leaves scars, deep and invisible, but always present. Scars that whisper of who we were when we gave ourselves away, when we dared to feel. We may call it hate, or we may call it indifference, but often these are only masks we wear to cover the ache. Hate is not the opposite of love. Sometimes it is just love’s residue, hardened and twisted, but still tethered to what once was.

This truth does not only belong to the realm of romance. It finds its way into the passions we pursue in life, art, work, dreams, and the things that once set our souls on fire. We begin with conviction, convinced we have found our calling, and we dive in wholeheartedly. But over time, the flame changes. What once felt like joy begins to feel heavy. The love we had for a craft, a dream, or even a career can shift into fatigue or even bitterness. And we wonder, was it ever love at all? Or was it a desire dressed as passion, destined to fade once lived in reality?

Perhaps love and passion share this one cruel truth: they are rarely permanent. They evolve, they transform, and sometimes they fade. When passion withers, we often resent it. It feels like a betrayal, as though we were abandoned by something we once trusted. Just like with lost love, we may disguise that grief as hate. It is easier to call it bitterness than to admit we still care. It is easier to shut the door than to admit part of us still longs for the fire.

But maybe that lingering ache is not a curse. Maybe it is a reminder that we once lived with depth, that we once cared enough to give ourselves fully. Whether it is for a person, an art form, a career, or a dream, the scar that love and passion leave is proof of life. Proof that we were not numb, that we were willing to risk heartbreak in the hope of joy.

So how do we live with this? Perhaps the point is not to escape the wound or silence the echo. Perhaps the point is to accept that love and passion will always carry weight. They are not meant to be tidy or easy. They are meant to move us, to shape us, to scar us. And in those scars lie the stories of our memories.

Love and passion are blessings and burdens, flames of fire turned to ashes. They do not always stay, but they always leave their mark. And in the silence between what was and what is, we learn to carry both the beauty and the ache. We learn that the scar itself is a kind of love, not for what we lost, but for the proof that we once dared to feel.