A Race I Never Agreed To Run

I grew up competing with someone I loved. Same house. Same family. Different expectations.

They were always the one people noticed first—the achiever, the example. And I learned early

how to stand quietly beside that. The rivalry was never loud. It lived in comparisons,

in pauses after my name, in questions that felt like measurements. I told myself I

didn’t care, but every win of theirs felt like proof I was falling behind.

For a long time, I thought they were the problem. Then one night, it was just the

two of us—no parents, no audience. And they admitted they were exhausted. Afraid of disappointing

everyone. Afraid of slowing down. That’s when I realized the truth.