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Justin Bieber was blaring from the basement to the roof but you could still hear the laughs and squeals of the seven other girls stomping around that sticky college house. Some sat criss-cross in front of their mirrors. Others crowded the bathrooms while they did their hair and planned the night.

In my closet of a bedroom in the basement of that house, frustration and envy bubbled over. I huffed and puffed my way through my wardrobe. I picked myself to pieces in the flimsy mirror on the back of my door.

My roommates ran by in their crop tops and glowing faces of makeup, and I struggled to find anything to wear. A fire burned inside me. Tears welled up in my eyes.

I just want to look like them, I thought. I want to be them and all of the things I’m not.

Smaller. Skinnier. Prettier. Better.

The tags in their tops were scribbled with S or XS. My tags had an M. Their jeans covered their ankles. Mine didn’t stand a chance. They wore heels and booties nearly every night out. At 5’11’’ I stuck with sneakers. Their hair held a curl or stayed perfectly straight, mine blew up with frizz. Their boyfriends were friends in the same fraternities. Mine? A ski bum who drank Jim Beam for breakfast.

By the time we left the house, a mountain of clothes disguised my bed and hangers scattered the floor, wounded soldiers on the battlefield of my own disgust. It was my Friday night dance with fluster and flurry, and Comparison lead the way.

During and after college, I lived in a constant state of lack. I focused on the things I wasn’t, the things I didn’t have or the ways I didn’t look. I was unhappy with myself so I chased a spotlight that followed the people around me and the girls that flooded my Instagram feed. I found fitness on the way.

At the beginning of my fitness weight loss journey, I did cardio like the energizer bunny and I hopped from class to class. If I burned 400 calories and left drenched in sweat with rosy cheeks, it was a mission accomplished. This will make me smaller was my self-given guarantee.

I was keto for a while, which actually made me feel like superwoman when it didn’t give me a headache, but it didn’t last and I still binged on the weekends. I tried those fat loss pills and the detox teas and I spent a week’s pay on a juice cleanse, just so I could lose a pound or two and gain it all back later.

In the years in and after college, I battled my own disappointment. My negative mindset trapped me and pinned me down. For far too long, it won.

But somewhere in the madness of chasing quick fixes, I found a weightlifting class called Body Pump. It became my thing. At 24 I was the youngest in the class, out of place among the moms and middle aged men, and I had zero clue what I was doing.

I didn’t know what weights to use and I didn’t know half of the movements. I was always offbeat and two steps behind. I followed the instructor, the way they changed movements or adjusted their barbells and plates, but I couldn’t mirror them exactly. I couldn’t use their weights because I didn’t have their strength or experience. I couldn’t try to be them. The outward comparison I had relied on for so long started to shift. My thoughts started to change.

How heavy can I go? How many reps can I do? Did I do that right? That was too easy, I’ll use a heavier weight next time!

“I” became a common theme. I put it to the test in every class as I evaluated how I felt, considered the weights I used in my previous class, and decided how much I could push myself on a given day. The spotlight I once chased elsewhere slowly turned back on myself, and my comparison gently turned inward.

I was up against me.

With time and practice, it became even more obvious. I didn’t need to lose any more of myself. Even the softer and squishier parts of me that rolled in my swimsuit or spilled over the tops of my jeans. The parts that I always wanted gone.

I needed to build. Build muscle. Build confidence. Build healthy habits. Build health. Build a lifestyle I could keep instead of chasing someone else's. So that’s exactly what I did, and it worked.

Comparing myself to me brought happiness and freedom and self awareness and confidence and a whole lot of love and appreciation for this body I get to call home. These days, I even get ready in peace.

When you lift weights, you create tears in the tissue that need to be repaired. When your body repairs that damage, new muscle tissue is built. Slowly, over time and after a lot more damage than you probably think, your muscles grow. You become stronger, more resilient, and better.

Those days in the basement of my tattered college house left me bumped and bruised, black and blue, scratches all over. You couldn’t see it, but I was hurt. With time and pain, I followed Comparison on a windy road. Eventually, it led back to myself.

Comparing myself to me was the bandage to it all. My catalyst for growth and change.

My anti-thief of joy.

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your daily pick me up

Go on a walk today and find things around you to admire. Maybe it's the fall colors, a specific tree or bush, or maybe it's the way the light glistens off the windows of the buildings around you. Be present in your environment, move your body, and practice gratitude.

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Repeat after me...

Say this affirmation out loud in the mirror 10 times every day. Write it in your journal over and over. Visualize it before bed. Feel it. Believe it.

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What I’m loving

The writing course I'm in, Write of Passage, is full of hundreds of incredible writers, thinkers, feelers, and learners. Over the last few weeks, I've been exposed to some incredible people, pieces of writing, and ways of thinking. I loved this piece in particular, on meditation and morning pages, because it's real, relatable, and relevant to the conversation of comparison. Give it a read and give Tommy a subscribe!

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💕 Morgan

PS - My newest free 5 day challenge is launching soon! Click here to get it as soon as it's ready.

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