Letting Go Of Comparison
You know that moment. You’re scrolling through Instagram, walking through a gallery, or chatting with another artist—and suddenly you feel it. That quiet but cutting thought: "They’re better."
It slips in almost unnoticed, like a faint ache in your chest. And before you can catch it, you’re deep in the spiral.
I had that moment recently.
I was sitting on my couch late at night, sipping iced tea, doing the usual mindless scroll. That’s when I saw the work of another abstract painter. I’ve loved her abstract work for as long as I’ve known her. Her paintings hit me immediately. They are big, raw, Iunapologetic. Explosions of color and texture, thick layers that seemed to vibrate off the canvas. They have this bold, declarative energy. Simply, they’re amazing. And she’s an amazing person.
And next, without warning, the comparison, self-doubt thoughts landed hard:
"Maybe my work is too quiet."
"Maybe these emotional landscapes I keep painting aren’t going to get me anywhere."
"Maybe I’m not enough."
That voice? It wasn’t subtle. It came in loud and confident, dressed as truth.
The comparison trap is sneaky like that. It can start as genuine admiration. You appreciate someone else’s talent, their success, and their visibility. And before you realize it, you’re questioning your own place. You’re questioning your own voice.
Social media makes this even harder. We are constantly bombarded by what everyone else is creating, selling, and celebrating. It can feel like everyone else is outpacing you. It can feel like you’re not doing enough, fast enough, loud enough.
I’ve felt this in galleries too. In group shows. In quiet moments after scrolling through an open call, seeing who got in. The thoughts are familiar:
"Their work is the kind that gets noticed."
"They’re doing something important."
"Why am I still painting like this? Shouldn’t I be more… impressive?"
Comparison can be a playground for cruelty from our inner critic.
Here’s what I’m learning over and over again:
There is no hierarchy in honest expression.
Her work is hers. Mine is mine. That’s the whole point.
We’re not here to compete. We’re not here to out-paint each other. We’re here to paint. To translate the internal weather into something we can see. To offer up our version of what’s true.
My work doesn’t scream. It hums. It lingers. It moves like fog, slow and soft, sometimes trembling with held energy.
I don’t paint traditional landscapes. I paint emotional terrains — the spaces between the seen and unseen. My work holds memory, grief, restlessness, the ache of becoming. My brush maps out what can’t always be named. I create the hush before thunder. The breath that remembers.
And some people need that. Some people are looking for art that doesn’t demand, but invites. That makes room for quietness. That makes space to exhale.
So when comparison creeps in, here’s what I try to do:
I name it. I write it down. I step away from the scroll. I go back to the studio. I touch the materials. I remember the last time painting made me feel alive. I remind myself: my job is not to impress. It’s to show up as my authentic self.
Here are some questions I ask myself when the doubt gets loud:
What is my work here to do?
What would I create if I didn’t need it to be better than anyone else’s?
What if my work is exactly enough, just as it is?
Sometimes I write these in my journal. Sometimes I paint through them. Sometimes I walk away from the canvas altogether and just breathe.
Letting go of comparison is not a one-time thing. It’s a practice. A daily return. A recalibration.
It’s not about silencing doubt forever. It’s about knowing what to do when it shows up.
If you’re reading this and you’ve been in that place — caught in someone else’s success, questioning your own pace, feeling like your voice isn’t loud enough — I want you to hear me:
You are not behind. You are not too quiet. Your work is not too small.
Let it go.
Let go of the need to match someone else’s intensity or success. Let go of the belief that your voice has to be different to be worthy. Let go of the weight of imagined expectations.
Come back to your own rhythm. To your own marks. To the way your hand moves when no one else is watching.
Because the world doesn’t need louder versions of someone else. It needs you. Your language. Your atmosphere. Your way.
Letting go, in this case, is not just release — it’s a return. To yourself. To your brush. To what made you fall in love with painting in the first place.
I’ll leave you with this:
Some people are waiting for art that feels like a breath. Like mist. Like memory.
Maybe you are the one who will give it to them.
If this resonated with you, I would love to hear your story. When has comparison crept into your creative practice? How do you come back to yourself? Feel free to share in the comments, send me a message, or reflect in your own way.
You’re not alone in this.
Your work is enough. And so are you.
Dancing With Clouds, 24×30, Mixed media on canvas
