We humans have a natural urge to define ourselves in comparison to others. Am I good at math? I'm better than the student next to me, so I must be good. Can I draw? My picture is much worse than my table partner’s. Man, I suck. We can't help it. There is always the inherent urge to glance at the person next to us and decide if we're better or worse.
I've never known a life without doing that. I have a built-in comparison, a forever standard that tells me where I lie: I have a twin brother.
From day zero, we were right next to each other and grew up side-by-side. I said the first word. Max took the first step. I stopped sleeping in a crib first. Max rode his bike first. I learned how to read faster. Max could do fractions before me. I was sweeter. Max was funnier. I remember every moment by who was first, who was best, and who was fastest. When we were young, it was subconscious. I didn't intentionally think about Max every time we did something. Yet when I was worse than him, I was terrible. When I was better, I was a genius. It didn't feel like a comparison. It just felt like the truth.
The comparisons became more visible in middle school. I’d always had an active social life, then middle-school drama reared its ugly head, and my best friends started to ignore me. One day they sat at a different table and didn't leave a seat for me--and there was never a seat for me with them again. Eventually, I ended up with a group of friends I liked but never truly felt a part of. Max, on the other hand, met Braden. They became inseparable, spending every minute after school together. They went out to the movies and played video games together. Suddenly, Max had plans every Friday night and I didn't. My absolute truth that I was the more social, fun twin wasn't true anymore.
High school hit me like a truck. School was more challenging, friends disbanded, and everything was different. Max and I had usually been in separate classes, but our high school was small, with only 700 kids, and it was inevitable our schedules would overlap. What we didn't expect was that we would have five classes together. Suddenly, we were being measured every day on the same scales. We took the same classes, had the same assignments, and were graded by the same teachers. The problem was, we didn't get the same grades. Max learned that he was good at Chemistry, and I learned I wasn't. He easily aced the quizzes while I had to study for hours. He was smarter, which had to mean I wasn’t smart.
Everything changed once I left for college. For the first time, I didn't have a person right next to me serving as a constant comparison. Max went to a big state school, and I went to a small liberal arts college. We were in such different places that it was impossible to compare. I stopped being Max's twin and started being Maddy.
It was incredibly freeing to have no one to compete with but myself. This made me ponder how I became consumed with comparison for so much of my life. How did it take a physical separation for me to realize my own value? I'm a great friend, not because I do or don’t have more friends than Max, but because I love my friends and they love me. I met Landry, my best friend and roommate, whose hugs are tackles of love and make my day a thousand times better. I'm a motivated student, not just because I do or don’t get better grades than Max, but because I love learning and working hard.
Still, I have to admit, the comparisons haven’t stopped. I take a math class with two friends. We received our math test back last week, and my heart dropped when I realized my score was ten points below theirs. Oh no! I'm behind, I'm bad at math and will never catch up! After freaking out, I caught myself. This is no different than what I've always done with Max. I'm defining myself based on others. My friends got an A, and that's amazing, but I worked hard to get my grade. Instead of comparing myself to others, I’ve decided to complete with only myself. I beat my score from the last test in a really difficult math class, and that’s enough for me to be proud of myself.
I thought I could escape the pressure and fear of constant comparison with Max by moving away, but I quickly learned I compare myself to everyone. It's unavoidable for me. But while I may not be able to stop comparing myself to others, I can keep recognizing it, naming it, challenging it. ...And I can remember that it only matters if I let it.