When You Wish You Were Someone Else

This reflection is part of a Lenten series I’m writing called From Brokenness to Wholeness.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been sitting with the image of that box of handmade pottery that arrived shattered in shipping… every piece cracked in some way.

It felt like a fitting metaphor for the ways life can fracture us.

Last week, I wrote about imperfection—
that familiar voice that tells me I’m not good enough… or that I should have done better.

But this week, I’ve been noticing a different kind of brokenness.

One that’s more subtle.

Less about what I do…
and more about who I am.

It doesn’t push.
It doesn’t criticize.

It simply whispers:

I am not enough.

The girl everyone loved

In eighth grade, I met a girl who seemed to carry light with her.

She was friendly in a way that made people feel seen.
Funny without trying too hard.
Confident, but never unkind.
Cute… in who she was and how she looked.

Everyone loved her.

I did too.

We became fast friends, and I remember feeling genuinely grateful to be close to her. There wasn’t a trace of resentment in me. No competition. No edge.

Just admiration.

And… something else.  Somewhere in the middle of all that goodness, a quiet comparison started to form.

I didn’t want to be her.
But I did wish I were more like her.

She was all the things.
And I was… mousy and brainy.

Whoop-di-doo.

It wasn’t dramatic.
It didn’t keep me up at night.
But it settled in… like a quiet conclusion I didn’t even realize I had made.

Not envy. Just comparison.

Looking back, I wouldn’t call it envy.

I wasn’t wishing she had less.
I wasn’t trying to compete.

If anything, I was trying to adjust myself—to inch a little closer to whatever it was that made her… her.

At the time, I didn’t have language for it.

Now, I think I do.

It wasn’t that she was too much.
It was that I started to feel like I wasn’t enough.

And that feeling didn’t stay in eighth grade.

Same longing, different places

It shows up differently now.  

When I served in ministry, it sounded like:
I wish I was as holy as she is.
As disciplined.
As committed to living simply as he is.

In business, it’s shifted slightly:
I wish my work looked more like hers.
I wish I were as effective a coach.
As successful.

The details change.

The structure doesn’t.

There’s always a her.  And sometimes a him.
And there’s always that quiet thought:

I wish I was more like that.

What comparison does beneath the surface

When that thought takes hold, I feel it in my body before I even notice it in my mind.

A heaviness… right in my gut.

And from there, I tend to move in one of two directions.

Sometimes I pull back.  I get quieter. Smaller.
I start to disappear a little—less visible, less engaged, less there.

Other times, I push.
I work harder.  Try to prove something… fix something… close the gap.

It can look productive on the outside, but it feels frantic on the inside.

Either way, I end up in the same place:

Not quite myself.

The quiet cost of comparison

I’ve started to notice something about this pattern.

Comparison doesn’t just make me feel smaller.  It makes me want to be someone else.

And the more I follow that instinct—the more I adjust, strive, shrink, or perform—the further I drift from who I actually am.

It’s subtle.

There’s no single moment where I decide, I’m going to disappear now.

But over time, it happens, little by little.

I trade in pieces of myself for something that feels… more acceptable.
More desirable.
More like her.

And somewhere along the way, I lose track of what was mine to begin with.

When “more” enters the story

Lately, I’ve been noticing how familiar this all feels.

Not just in my own life… but in a much older story.

In the beginning, there’s a garden.

Everything is given.
There is enough.
They are enough.

And then, almost imperceptibly, a new idea is introduced.

More.

More knowledge.
More insight.
More than what has already been provided.

It’s such a small shift.

But it changes everything.

Because as soon as “more” enters the conversation…
“enough” quietly slips out the back door.

And I wonder if that’s where the fracture really begins.

Not just in disobedience, but in the belief that what was given—
and who we are—isn’t quite enough.

I see that same shift in myself.

The moment I start to believe I need more—
more success, more impact, more whatever-she-has—

I also begin to believe that I am not enough.

Pieces that don’t seem to fit

There’s an image that’s been lingering with me.

A small piece… set off to the side.

The color doesn’t quite match anything nearby.
The shape feels a little off.

On its own, it doesn’t make much sense.

It’s easy to assume it doesn’t belong.
Or that it was cut wrong.
Or that it’s extra—unnecessary.

But I’ve started to wonder…

If maybe it’s not misplaced.
Just not placed yet.

Because some pieces only make sense
when they’re set next to the right ones.

Different parts, same body

There’s a line from Scripture that comes to mind here—not as an answer, just as a reminder.

That we are part of one body.
Not identical pieces.
Not interchangeable parts.

Different.  On purpose.

And maybe that difference isn’t something to overcome…
but something to understand.

Not every part is meant to look the same.
Not every piece is meant to carry the same shape.

A different question

I still notice that old instinct sometimes.

That quiet pull toward more.
That reflex to measure, compare, adjust.

But I’m starting to ask a different question.

Not, How do I become more like her?

But…

What if the problem isn’t that I’m missing something…
but that I’ve been measuring myself against the wrong shape?

Reflection

Where have I been wishing I were someone else…
instead of wondering where I belong?

Next week:  Suffering — when life breaks in ways we didn’t choose… and we’re left holding pieces we don’t know what to do with.

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