“It is not joy that makes us grateful; it is gratitude that makes us joyful.”
- David Steindl-Rast

The Powerball jackpot hit $1.8 billion this week. I bought a ticket, like millions of others. I knew the odds. I didn’t win. So instead of scrolling real estate listings for private islands, I was left with my thoughts.

In more ways than I deserve, I’ve already won the lottery.

I woke up this morning. My body works. I get to hike on a Saturday in Sequoia National Park, looking up at trees that have been here for two thousand years. There’s food in the fridge. There are people I love, and people who love me back. That is an absurd level of good fortune.

And yet, when stress creeps in, perspective slips. The mind shifts from what is present to what is missing. Maybe it looks sideways.

A classmate sells their company, and even while you’re happy for them, you feel the tug that maybe you haven’t done enough. A neighbor’s house suddenly makes yours look smaller. A friend posts marathon splits, and you remember how much faster you once were. Another family moves to the mountains, and suddenly life feels louder by contrast.

These moments can add up. If we don’t catch them, comparison begins to critique and chip away at joy.

This week, two old friends put it into words. One sighed, “Sometimes, I feel like I’m ten years behind.” Another admitted, “By now, I just thought I’d have figured out more.”

Before you ask, ‘Am I behind?’ you have to be clear on the sharper question: ‘Compared to what?’

So why does enough so often feel like not enough?

Because the mind adapts. Big wins sparkle, then fade. Even lottery winners often find their daily happiness returning close to where it was within a year. The finish line becomes the new baseline.

Because losses loom larger than gains. Behavioral economists show a setback weighs about twice as much as a win of the same size. The ticket you didn’t win lingers longer than the one you did.

Because we’re still running on scripts that no longer fit. House by thirty, family by thirty-five, title by forty. Yet the average first-time homebuyer in the U.S. is nearly thirty-eight. The median age of first marriage is past thirty. The milestones moved. The timelines didn’t.

And because the culture around us is engineered for comparison. Scroll long enough and you’ll find someone younger, richer, fitter, freer. Neuroscience shows those upward comparisons trigger the circuits for pain. Looking back at your own progress lights the circuits for reward. Same person. Same life. Different frame.

And we almost never use the comparisons that help. Your past self, who would be astonished by where you are. Your future self, who would envy the time and health you hold today and care more about how you carried yourself than what you hadn’t yet won.

The most genuine self-confidence comes from measuring yourself against the right scoreboard.

One last story. A boy finished last in a hundred-meter race. Eighteen seconds. Shoulders down.

His coach smiled: “Lost? Yesterday, you couldn’t break twenty. That’s the fastest you’ve ever run.” Something shifted. The next week he ran fifteen.

Reframing didn’t excuse him. It unlocked him.

Last week, I asked which alarms deserve your attention. This week, it’s which comparisons deserve your energy.

Ambition will keep moving the target. Culture will hand you borrowed scripts. Technology will tempt you with someone else’s scoreboard. You can’t stop comparing. But you can choose the frame, and you can choose the race that is yours to win.

Until next Sunday, measure yourself against the self who once only dreamed of standing here.

Cheers,
Eric

P.S. I don’t run ads. The world already has enough noise. If someone you love feels behind, maybe send this their way.