It's Never Enough

 

“It could be worse.”

How many times have you heard that one?

Maybe you’re having a bad day. 

Maybe something didn’t work out the way you hoped. 

Maybe you lost something important to you. 

Maybe you’re genuinely hurting.

And somebody, perhaps with the best intentions in the world, reminds you:

“It could be worse.”

And you know what?

They’re right.

It could be worse.

Almost everything could be worse.

But here’s another one:

“It could be better.”

You finally accomplish something you’ve been working toward. 

You get the promotion. 

You lose the weight. 

You buy the house. 

You hit some milestone that mattered to you. 

Maybe nothing particularly spectacular happened at all. 

Maybe you just look around at your life one day and realize that you’re actually pretty happy with it.

Well...

It could be better.

You could make more money. 

You could have a nicer house. 

You could be in better shape. 

You could have accomplished more by now. 

Somebody else certainly has.

And that’s when I started realizing that “it could be worse” and “it could be better,” despite sounding like complete opposites, can actually communicate exactly the same thing:

It’s never enough.

Your suffering isn’t bad enough for you to be as upset as you are.

Your accomplishment isn’t good enough for you to be as happy as you are.

So my question is:

When is it enough?

At what point am I allowed to be happy about something I’ve achieved?

At what point am I allowed to be sad about something I’ve lost?

If not now, then when?

Because if the standard is comparison, we’ve created a game that nobody can win.

There will almost always be somebody doing better than you.

There will almost always be somebody doing worse than you.

There’s someone with a bigger house. 

Someone making more money. 

Someone in better shape. 

Someone with more accomplishments.

There’s also someone dealing with greater pain. 

Someone who has lost more. 

Someone who would trade places with you in an instant.

I can acknowledge every bit of that.

But what exactly does any of it have to do with whether I’m allowed to experience what is happening in my own life right now?

Maybe this is why we say comparison is the thief of joy.

Because both “it could be better” and “it could be worse” require somebody to compare my life to somebody else’s.

The problem is, I never asked for that comparison.

If I tell you I’m proud of something I accomplished, I’m not claiming that nobody has ever accomplished more.

If I tell you I’m hurting, I’m not claiming that nobody has ever suffered more.

You introduced that competition.

I didn’t.

“It could be better” looks at somebody who has more than I do and asks why I’m satisfied with what I have.

“It could be worse” looks at somebody who has less than I do and asks why I’m upset about what I don’t have.

Either way, somebody else’s life has suddenly become the measuring stick for mine.

And why?

Why does somebody else having a bigger house make mine smaller?

Why does somebody else earning more money make my paycheck worth less?

Why does somebody else accomplishing more make my accomplishment disappear?

And in the other direction, why does somebody else experiencing greater pain make mine stop hurting?

It doesn’t.

I can admire what somebody else has without diminishing what I have.

I can recognize what somebody else is going through without pretending that nothing in my own life is allowed to hurt.

Comparison might be the thief of joy, but sometimes it’s also the thief of perspective in the opposite direction. 

It can convince you that your happiness isn’t deserved because somebody has more, or that your sadness isn’t deserved because somebody has less.

I never asked to compete in either direction.

Sometimes I just want to experience my own life without somebody turning it into a leaderboard.

And if I tell you something is bothering me and your immediate response is “it could be worse,” I have to wonder what you’re trying to accomplish.

Are you genuinely trying to give me perspective because you think I need it?

Or did you just want to get a word in edgewise?

Because something being true doesn’t automatically make it helpful.

If somebody tells me they lost their job, I could remind them that at least they have a roof over their head.

If they lose their house, I could remind them that at least they have their health.

If they lose their health, I could find somebody with an even worse diagnosis.

We can keep going.

Eventually we arrive at one unfortunate person who, according to this logic, is apparently the only human being on Earth currently authorized to be upset.

Everyone else?

It could be worse.

And there’s something else about that comparison that bothers me.

Think about the person you’re using as the example of “worse.”

Imagine actually saying it to them.

Imagine pointing to someone in a wheelchair and telling another person, “See? It could be worse. You could be like them.”

Imagine telling grieving parents that you use what happened to their family to remind other people that their problems aren’t so bad.

Imagine telling someone living in poverty that you tell your children about people like them whenever your kids complain about what’s for dinner.

Would that person feel honored to have provided everyone else with some perspective?

Or might they wonder why you’ve reduced their entire existence to the bottom end of somebody else’s comparison?

They’re people.

They aren’t bookends for an argument.

And yet I don’t think the answer is to pretend perspective doesn’t matter.

Sometimes I absolutely need perspective.

Sometimes I need someone who knows me well enough to tell me, “Yeah, this sucks, but I think you’re making it bigger than it actually is.”

Sometimes remembering what I do have is exactly what I need.

Gratitude matters.

And the same thing applies in the other direction.

“It could be better” isn’t inherently an insult either.

Sometimes I need somebody to push me.

Maybe I’m capable of more. 

Maybe I’ve gotten complacent. 

Maybe there’s something I can change that would genuinely improve my life.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting better.

But there’s a difference between using perspective as a tool and using it as a verdict.

There’s a difference between encouraging someone and deciding for them that what they have isn’t enough.

There’s a difference between helping someone through pain and deciding that they haven’t suffered enough to deserve feeling it.

And I think “there’s always work to be done” falls into the same category.

Of course there is.

There is always something I could improve.

I could make more money. 

Get into better shape. 

Read another book. 

Learn another skill. 

Pick up another hobby. 

Become better at something I already know how to do.

But at some point, aren’t I supposed to enjoy the fruits of my labor?

Otherwise, what am I working for?

If every achievement immediately becomes the new minimum requirement, when exactly do I get to enjoy having achieved it?

It’s like climbing a mountain, finally reaching the summit, looking around at the view and immediately having somebody point into the distance and say:

“Yeah, but look at that mountain over there.”

How about we focus on the mountain we just climbed?

There’s a difference between contentment and complacency.

Being proud of what I’ve accomplished doesn’t mean I’ve decided there’s nothing left for me to improve.

It just means I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished.

Period.

I can enjoy where I am and still eventually decide I’d like to go somewhere else.

The same thing happens with something as seemingly positive as learning.

“There’s always more to learn.”

Of course there is.

There is quite literally more information in the world than I could possibly learn if I lived to be 1,000 years old.

But at some point, I’d also like to actually use some of it.

I would personally love to learn Japanese. 

I love Japanese professional wrestling. 

I love Japanese anime.

I love Japanese arcades. 

Being able to watch either one and understand what people are saying without relying on subtitles would be incredible.

That would give me an actual reason to learn the language.

But if I eventually became fluent in Japanese, I wouldn’t immediately start learning Mongolian just so I could put another feather in my cap.

Why would I?

Maybe there’s something about Mongolia that fascinates me and someday I develop a genuine desire to learn the language. 

Great.

But I don’t need to learn it simply because I finished learning Japanese and apparently having free time means I’m obligated to fill it with the acquisition of another skill.

And there it is again:

“It could be better.”

You learned another language?

Well, you could have learned five.

You learned five?

Somebody else knows ten.

You learned to play guitar?

Why not piano?

You learned how to cook?

Why not learn how to bake?

You read 20 books this year?

Somebody else read 50.

At some point, self-improvement stops being about improving your life and starts becoming a collection of trophies.

I don’t want to learn something just so I can put another trophy on the wall.

I want to learn something because I’m interested in it. 

Because I’m going to use it. 

Because learning it brings something into my life that I actually want there.

Otherwise, what exactly am I chasing?

There are more languages, trades, skills, hobbies and subjects in this world than any one person could master in a lifetime. 

If the expectation is that I must constantly move on to the next one because what I already know “could be better,” then I’m being measured against an impossible standard.

And worse, I might spend so much time learning how to do things that I never leave myself any time to actually do them.

Learning can become the addiction.

Achievement can become the addiction.

Self-improvement can become the addiction.

Not because any of those things are bad, but because you never permit yourself to reach the part where you actually enjoy what all that work was supposed to give you.

Sometimes I can spend Saturday learning something new.

Sometimes I can spend Saturday enjoying something I already know how to do.

And sometimes I can spend Saturday doing absolutely nothing productive whatsoever because I enjoyed my Saturday.

Not every moment needs to become an investment in some supposedly superior future version of myself.

And apparently it isn’t enough to decide whether I’m allowed to feel something. We also like deciding how long I’m allowed to feel it.

I accomplished something I’m genuinely proud of.

How long do I get to enjoy it?

A day?

A week?

A month?

At what point does somebody decide I’ve celebrated long enough and it’s time to remind me that “there’s always work to be done”?

And more importantly, where did that number come from?

Did we vote on it?

Is there a chart somewhere I wasn’t given?

If I spend a week being proud of something I worked toward for five years, is that acceptable? 

What about two weeks? 

At what precise moment does healthy contentment become complacency?

The same thing happens in the opposite direction.

Something goes wrong. 

I lose something. 

I’m disappointed. 

I’m grieving. 

I’m simply down on my luck for a while.

How long do I get?

At first, everyone understands.

Then eventually comes some version of:

“You’ve got to move on.”

Okay.

When?

And once again, where did you get that number?

Maybe I need a day.

Maybe I need a month.

Maybe what happened to me is something I’ll carry in some form for the rest of my life.

That doesn’t mean I’m incapable of moving forward. 

It means human emotions don’t operate according to an expiration date somebody else gets to stamp on them.

And that’s what bothers me about this entire mentality.

There always seems to be an invisible stopwatch running.

Don’t be sad for too long, because it could be worse.

Don’t be satisfied for too long, because it could be better.

So apparently there’s some tiny acceptable window in the middle where I’m permitted to experience my own life before somebody decides I’ve been doing it for too long.

Who decided that?

At what point am I allowed to enjoy what I’ve just accomplished, and for how long?

At what point am I allowed to hurt over what I’ve just lost, and for how long?

And if your answer comes with a specific amount of time, I’d really like to know where you got it.

Now, obviously, there are extremes.

If disappointment or grief has reached the point where I’m unable to function or I’m neglecting everything else in my life, someone who cares about me should be able to recognize that and try to help.

Likewise, if I accomplish one thing and spend the next 30 years refusing to grow because “I already accomplished something,” perhaps somebody should give me a nudge.

That isn’t what I’m talking about.

I’m talking about this constant pressure to either minimize what hurts because somebody has it worse or minimize what feels good because something better is possible.

If I’m happy with something I’ve achieved, I don’t need to prove that nobody has ever achieved more before I’m allowed to celebrate it.

Whether it's a small victory, a big victory, or somewhere in the middle, it's still yours to celebrate.

The good times usually pass in the blink of an eye, so you should savor them in the moment.

If I’m hurting because I lost something important to me, I don’t need to prove that nobody has ever lost more before I’m allowed to grieve it.

The bad times usually pass like a kidney stone.

But no matter what, when you're actually going through it, you don't need to ask permission to do so.

I’m not claiming to have the best life in the world when I’m happy.

I’m not claiming to have the worst life in the world when I’m sad.

I’m experiencing my life.

That’s all.

There will always be better.

There will always be worse.

There will always be more work to do.

There will always be something else to learn.

There will always be another way I could improve.

All true.

But if I spend my entire life looking toward what’s better and what’s worse, I’ll never actually get to experience where I am.

Maybe I accomplished something today that I’ve been working toward for years.

Let me enjoy it.

Maybe today something hurts.

Let it hurt.

Tomorrow I can reassess. 

Tomorrow I can find perspective. 

Tomorrow I can decide whether I want another mountain to climb.

But right now?

Can I look at the view from this one first?

I never asked for my life to be turned into a leaderboard.

Maybe this moment doesn’t need to be compared to anything.

Maybe it can just be enough.

Thanks for reading folks, until next week!