“Comparison is the thief of joy”. – Theodore Roosevelt

I strolled behind an individual walking a dog on Market Street today. They (the person, not the canine) were overweight. I thought, “I’m fortunate not to struggle with my weight.” And then it occurred to me—I am grateful for my struggles. Record scratch.

I am 44 and have not run in nearly nineteen years.

I never particularly enjoyed running. (Does anyone?) I ran as a means to an end. In grade school, I sprinted after knocking and running on strangers’ doors at night. During college, I ran while I trained for beach lifeguard tryouts or to burn calories after too many cheap beers the previous night. Now, I can’t run.

I see people jogging and think, “I wish I were like them.”

It is easy to forget that everyone fights demons. Comparing myself with someone’s physical abilities, another attorney’s perceived success, or a random person I pass along the sidewalk is a bogus practice.

I don’t have a clue about others’ past or present struggles. Maybe they were an orphan. Perhaps their relationship is failing. Did their dog die recently? My limited external view does not give me insight into their emotional, mental, and physical well-being.

So, the next time I want to lament my inability to run or participate in other athletic endeavors that do not require accommodation, I’ll remind myself how fortunate I am. I’ve never known what it’s like not to have sufficient food, water, or shelter. I grew up in the suburbs with loving parents, a fantastic sister, and many friends. The list of my blessings goes on and on. Instead of focusing on what I think I lack, I’ll (try to) remember how amazing my life is.