At this point in my life, I thought I’d have a partner, a house, and at least two children by now. Instead, I’m 29, single, back in my parents’ house, and asking if I can have a can of tuna like I’m a suspicious lodger with no tenancy agreement.

Not exactly the Pinterest board I had in mind.

I had big dreams. Big plans. A whole imaginary life that, quite frankly, did not include moving home and trying to work out where my shampoo is allowed to live. For the last ten years, I’ve been travelling, working, moving, living, crying in various airport toilets, and somehow making my way through 40+ countries. And now I’m back in New Zealand from the UK, half-unpacked, half-panicked, and fully unsure how to explain my life without sounding like I’ve been buffering since 2014.

No house. No husband. No babies. No clue where half my socks are. And naturally, my brain has decided this means I’m behind. Helpful. Thanks, brain. But the more I talk to people, the more I realise everyone seems to feel behind in some way. Someone thought they’d be married by now. Someone thought they’d have kids. Someone thought they’d own a house. Someone thought they’d have a big impressive career and not be Googling “how to reset your nervous system” at 11:46pm on a Friday night. And after having this same conversation with friends, and repeating myself twelve times to my parents who absolutely can hear me but behave like I’m speaking through a 2007 walkie-talkie, I keep coming back to one thing:

Comparison is why you feel behind.

Because there’s that quote, “comparison is the thief of joy.” And yes, very poetic, very true, put it on a mug.

But comparison steals more than joy.

It steals your ability to look at your own life without immediately putting it in a spreadsheet next to someone else’s. It steals your gratitude. Your presence. Your common sense. Your ability to see a baby announcement without mentally applying for a refund on your entire timeline. And the worst part is, we’re comparing ourselves to lives we don’t even fully know.

I always think about that little jar analogy. Imagine everyone wrote their problems down on a piece of paper, folded them up, and put them into a jar. Then you had to pick one out at random. No names. No context. No “actually can I have the one with the nice kitchen and stable-looking relationship?” Just a random piece of paper. Would you still swap? Would you hand over your life, your problems, your weird little brain, your unfinished business, and take someone else’s full behind-the-scenes package? Because we say we want someone else’s life, but usually we only want the shiny bits.

We want the wedding photo, not the awkward silence in the car after the argument. We want the house keys, not the mortgage stress and passive-aggressive group chat about whose turn it is to clean the bathroom. We want the baby announcement, not the sleep deprivation, identity crisis, or the tiny person screaming because their banana has been cut “wrong.” We want the job title, not the burnout. The relationship, not the doubts. The travel photos, not the 3am hostel breakdown where you’re eating crisps for dinner and questioning every decision you’ve ever made. Everyone has something. Some people just hide it better. Or have better lighting. And I think that’s the bit I keep forgetting. I keep thinking I’m late. Late to love. Late to motherhood. Late to owning a house. Late to being the version of myself I thought I’d be by now.

But late compared to who? A timeline I made up when I was younger and thought 29 was basically retirement? People on the internet who show me one polished square at a time? A version of life I’m not even sure I still want in the exact same way? Maybe I’m not behind. Maybe I’m just in a weird middle bit. The bit where nothing looks impressive yet. The bit where you’re starting again. The bit where your life looks less like a success story and more like someone opened 47 tabs and now none of them are loading.

But maybe that still counts. Maybe moving home isn’t failure. Maybe being single isn’t proof that nobody wants you. Maybe not having kids yet doesn’t mean you’ve missed your chance. Maybe unpacking slowly, rebuilding your life, and learning how to be a person again is still something to be proud of. Because when I actually stop comparing, I remember I haven’t done nothing. I’ve lived. I’ve travelled. I’ve loved people. I’ve left places. I’ve survived things I thought would completely break me. I’ve restarted more times than my laptop during an update. And maybe my life doesn’t look how I imagined it would at 29. But it’s still mine. Still messy. Still confusing. Still occasionally tuna-based. But mine.

And maybe this isn’t just a 29 thing. Maybe you’re 19 and already feel like you’re meant to have your whole future colour-coded in a five-year plan. Maybe you’re 29 and wondering if you accidentally missed three major life updates while everyone else got married, bought houses, and learnt how to cook fish without panicking. Maybe you’re 39, 49, 59, or older, looking around thinking, “Surely I was meant to feel more sorted by now?” But comparison doesn’t care how old you are. It’ll happily rob you at any age. It’ll rob you of your own journey, your own pace, your own weird little plot twist, and the tiny good things happening right in front of you.

So if you’re looking around thinking everyone else got the manual and you somehow got a free trial version with missing instructions, I promise you, you’re not the only one. You’re not behind.

You’re just meeting versions of yourself you haven't even met yet. You’re not failing just because your life doesn’t look like someone else’s. You’re just comparing. And maybe the good thing today is remembering you don’t actually want everyone else’s life. Maybe you just need to stop measuring yours with someone else’s ruler.