Life’s hard—an understatement, I know. At 17, I’m already knee-deep in essays, college applications, existential dread, and the occasional family drama. Sometimes it feels like every day is a mini soap opera I didn’t audition for. And when things get rough, I turn to my friends to vent, hoping for a little comfort.
But lately, I’ve noticed a disturbing pattern in how those conversations go. Instead of the support I’m craving, I’m met with a one-upper. You know the type.
Me: “I’m so stressed about my grades right now. I feel like I’m drowning.”
Friend: “Grades? Please. When I failed IB Bio HL last year, my parents grounded me for a month. You’ll be fine.”
What was supposed to be a heart-to-heart turns into a weird competition. Suddenly, we’re not two people connecting over struggles. It’s a battle of “who’s had it worse?”
The Hidden Games We Play
I don’t think anyone means to turn my misery into their personal trauma showcase. If anything, it feels instinctive, like an automatic response: “You’re struggling? Let me show you how I struggled harder!” Maybe they think it’s relatable or comforting, like, “See? You’re not alone!”
But instead of feeling less alone, I feel dismissed. It’s as if my pain isn’t “enough” to matter unless it’s bigger, messier, or more dramatic. I’ve even caught myself hesitating to share things because I’m bracing for the inevitable, “Oh, that’s nothing. When I…”
Why do we do this? Why is there this unspoken need to compare scars, to measure our pain against someone else’s like it’s a race? It’s almost as if we think there’s a finite amount of sympathy to go around, and we’re all scrambling to get the biggest slice.
Vulnerability: The Hijacked Train
One of the hardest things about sharing your struggles is putting yourself out there. It’s terrifying, right? You’re exposing the softest, rawest parts of yourself, hoping someone will handle them with care.
But when you’re met with someone’s own story—especially one that feels like it’s trying to outdo yours—it feels like a hijacking. Like you got halfway through saying, “I’m scared and overwhelmed,” and someone grabbed the mic to say, “Let me tell you about how much worse I’ve had it.”
I’m not saying people don’t deserve to share their own stories. Of course they do. But maybe not right at the moment when someone else is bleeding their heart out. Maybe—just maybe—it’s okay to let someone have the floor without turning it into a group presentation on trauma.
The Problem with Comparing Pain
Here’s the thing about comparing pain: nobody wins. There’s no gold medal for the most tragic story. All it does is make everyone feel worse.
Take the time I finally opened up about how much I was struggling with my family. It was a big deal for me because I don’t usually talk about personal stuff—I’d rather joke about how I’m probably going to die single because I spend too much time watching Shrek memes. But I decided to be real for once. I told a friend how the constant fighting at home was making it hard to concentrate on anything.
Their response? A blow-by-blow of their own family drama, complete with a “You think that’s bad? At least your parents didn’t threaten to kick you out.” I know they weren’t trying to be mean, but their words hit like a slap. I wasn’t looking for a competition; I was looking for comfort.
And that’s the core of the issue: when we compare pain, we turn something deeply human—vulnerability—into something cold and transactional. It’s no longer about connection. It’s about winning.
Why Empathy Matters
I think what we forget, especially in a world so saturated with social media highlight reels and oversharing, is that pain isn’t a zero-sum game. Your struggles don’t diminish mine, and mine don’t erase yours. There’s room for all of it.
Empathy, though? That takes effort. It’s not just about hearing someone’s words—it’s about actually listening. And I mean listening. No interruptions, no “Oh, me too!” stories, no unsolicited advice. Just holding space for someone else’s hurt.
When someone says they’re struggling, they’re not asking you to fix their life. They’re asking you to acknowledge their pain, even if you don’t fully understand it. And honestly, just saying, “That sounds so hard. I’m sorry you’re dealing with that,” can mean the world.
Where Do We Go from Here?
I’m not writing this from a place of judgment—I’ve been guilty of playing the Trauma Olympics too. There have been times when I’ve jumped in with my own story, not because I wanted to dismiss someone, but because I thought it would help them feel less alone. What I didn’t realize is that sometimes, trying to relate can actually make someone feel erased.
Now, I’m trying to do better. When a friend comes to me with their struggles, I remind myself to:
- Take a beat: Resist the urge to respond right away. Let their words sink in.
- Validate, don’t compare: Acknowledge their feelings without bringing in my own experiences.
- Ask what they need: Sometimes the best thing you can say is, “How can I support you?”
It’s a work in progress, but I think the effort matters.
A Lesson in Humanity
Here’s what I’ve learned from all of this: being human is messy. We’re all carrying invisible backpacks stuffed with stress, grief, fear, and disappointment. Some backpacks are heavier than others, sure. But that doesn’t mean yours doesn’t weigh you down.
So let’s stop trying to one-up each other’s pain. Let’s stop turning vulnerability into a contest. Instead, let’s show up for each other with empathy, humility, and the willingness to just listen.
Because at the end of the day, what we really need isn’t someone to tell us their pain is bigger. We need someone to say, “I see you. I hear you. And I’m here.”
Life isn’t about “who’s better at sucking in life.” It’s about reminding each other that even in our worst moments, we’re not alone. And honestly? That’s what makes all the difference.
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