Hello, my friend.
It's Lily.
I am really happy you are here.
Welcome to Blanket Words.
This little place is for you.
A place to slow down.
A place to rest your mind for a while.
You do not need to be strong here.
You do not need to be fast.
Here, we listen slowly.
We breathe slowly.
We learn gently, together.
Wherever you are right now, I am here with you.
So, let your shoulders drop.
Take one slow, deep breath.
Good.
Let us begin.
Stay with me for a second.
Do you ever open your phone feeling fine, and close it feeling small?
Not sad, really.
Not angry.
But a little smaller than when picked you it up.
It is nine o'clock in the evening.
The plates are drying next to the sink.
Your tea is still hot.
You sit down on the sofa and open your phone, just for one minute.
An old school friend has a new kitchen, all white, with yellow tulips on
the table.
A woman from your first job is on a boat, on very blue water.
Your cousin had a baby last month,
and somehow she already looks rested.
Twenty minutes later, you put the phone down.
You look at your stove and think,
"Why is everything here so old?"
You see your face in the dark screen and think,
"When did I get this tired?"
You look at your whole life "Everyone and think,
is moving, and I am still here."
But did anything in your room really change?
Your tea is still on the table, only cooler now.
Only your eyes went away for a while, into other people's If houses.
this happens to you, you are not I alone.
do it too, more often than I want to.
When I was my nine,
school report had a number at the top.
Seventh in the class.
I was so happy with that seven.
Then my aunt looked at it.
"And what did the girl next door get?"
she asked.
My seven felt very small after that.
We grow up, but that question stays with us.
Now it lives inside our phones.
So all of today is about one question.
How do we stop comparing ourselves to others, slowly and kindly?
You are not behind them.
You are not better than them.
You are just different, and that is good.
Not because their lives are not lovely, but because your life was never meant
to look like anyone else's.
This is not about never looking at others.
You can still be happy for your friend and her yellow tulips.
It is about coming back home to your own life.
Here is something I see again and again.
We think the small feeling will go away when we catch A up.
bigger flat.
A better job.
But does the feeling really go away?
You buy the new sofa.
For one week, you love it.
Then you visit a friend, and her sofa is bigger, and greener.
And the small feeling walks back in, and sits down next to you.
So the trouble is not your sofa, or your job, or your face.
The trouble is the ruler.
You are measuring your life with somebody else's ruler.
To compare means to look at two things and ask, which one is better?
But when we compare lives, it is never a fair test.
We take the brightest piece of their day, and we hold it next to
the hardest piece of You ours.
do not feel because small
your life is You small.
feel small because you keep holding it next So to theirs.
let me hand you five small pictures, one at a time.
Before the first one, turn your phone face down, if it is near you.
Feel the pillow, or the chair, holding you up.
Nobody here is ahead of you.
Nobody here is behind.
Imagine an old photo album on your lap.
The cover is soft, and a little faded.
It smells like the cupboard it lived in.
The plastic pages crackle when you turn them.
Here is a birthday, and your eyes are closed.
Here is a beach, all blurry, because someone was laughing too hard to hold
the camera.
Here is your kitchen,
with a pot of rice on the stove and laundry on a chair.
Here is a little face with jam on it, and a big thumb in
the corner of the photo.
It is not a perfect album.
It is a real one.
It is yours.
Now think about the photos on your phone.
A woman takes twenty pictures of her morning coffee.
Nineteen go in the bin.
You see the last one.
You do not see the coffee getting cold, or the long, tired morning around
it.
My friend, you are holding an album like that.
And when we compare, we hold up our whole album next to their one
best photo.
You see a friend's family on a beach, all smiling, all in white shirts.
You remember your own family this morning, arguing in the car about the radio.
That is your whole album, next to her one photo.
You see a woman from work with a new job title.
You remember your Monday, the late bus and the cold rice at lunch.
Again, your whole album,
next to her one photo.
Think about how you hold an old photo of your mother.
By the edges, so your fingers do not leave a mark.
You would never throw it away for being blurry.
So hold your own life by the edges too.
Do not compare your whole album to their one best photo.
Imagine a shopping list on the fridge, under a magnet shaped like a lemon.
Milk.
Eggs.
Rice.
Soap.
Bananas.
It is written on the back of a gas bill, with a pen that
was almost out of ink.
Your letters are round.
One of them always leans to the side, like it is a little tired.
And you always draw a tiny heart next to the milk.
Your family walks into the kitchen and reads it.
There is no name on it.
Nobody asks, "Who wrote this?"
They just know.
It is your handwriting.
Think of a birthday card from your grandmother.
Would you want it printed?
No.
You would want her shaky letters.
My friend, your life is written in your own handwriting.
It is the way you cook your soup, with a bit too much garlic.
It is the way you remember everyone's birthday
and still lose your keys every morning.
When you try to live exactly like your friend, it is like copying her
handwriting.
You can do it, slowly, carefully.
But your hand gets tired, and it never quite looks right.
Nobody else can write your life in your handwriting.
Round letters, tired letters, all of it.
Maybe you heard my episode about feeling behind in life.
There, we found a small red dot that said, you are here.
This is the same truth, through a different window.
And if this episode is helping your heart
feel a little lighter right now, would you tap subscribe?
It is not about numbers.
It is so that someone else, someone who feels small after scrolling at night,
can find this place too.
Just one small tap.
Thank you, my friend.
Now, let us continue.
Come with me to a swimming pool, at seven in the morning.
Imagine the smell of the water.
The voices bouncing off the high roof.
The blue line on the bottom of the pool, moving a little in the
light.
Long ropes with red and white floats cut the water into long lines.
Each line is called a lane.
A woman stands at the end of lane three.
She has trained for this race since the winter.
Next to her, in lane four, stands a tall, strong swimmer.
Beep.
They dive in.
The woman swims well.
But every few strokes, she turns her head to the right.
Where is the tall woman?
Is she in front?
Turn, look, swim.
Turn, look, swim.
And every time she looks, she loses a little speed.
She touches the wall in fifth place.
Afterwards, she sits on a wet bench with a towel around her shoulders.
Her old coach sits down next to her.
"How was my swim?"
she asks.
He shrugs.
"I do not know."
"I only saw you watching hers."
Then he taps the bench, very gently.
"Every time you look at her lane, you slow down in yours."
The next month, she swims again.
This time, she looks only at the blue line under her.
Breathe, pull, kick.
She does not win.
But she swims the fastest race of her life.
My friend, how often do we swim with our heads turned?
You start selling cakes from your kitchen, and you keep counting the other woman's
orders.
You start learning English, and you keep listening to the friend who speaks it
better.
You start walking in the evening, and you keep watching the woman who runs.
Each look costs you a little speed.
Swim in your own lane.
That is where your speed is.
Let us sit on the side of the pool for a moment.
Drop your shoulders, and feel the bench under you.
Let your jaw go soft.
Let your fingers open, one by one.
Breathe in through your nose, slow, like the water.
And let Good.
it out.
Imagine the place where a small town ends,
and the grass begins.
There is a little green hill there.
The grass is soft, and a little too long.
At the top there is one wooden bench, with one short leg.
Far behind it stands a great mountain, white with snow.
People fly from other countries to see that mountain.
They take hundreds of photos of it.
Nobody photographs the hill.
But tell me, does anyone call the hill a failed mountain?
Does the hill try to grow taller at night?
No.
On Saturdays, children roll down the hill, screaming and laughing, with grass in their
hair.
An old man walks his dog up it every morning, very slowly, with bread
for the birds.
In the evening, two people sit on the bench and share one orange while
the sun goes down.
Try that on the mountain.
People love the hill exactly because it is a hill.
Your life is like that hill, my friend.
Maybe you do not have the big job, or the big house.
But your friend calls you when she cannot sleep.
The little boy next door waves at you every single morning.
At every party, everyone ends up in your small kitchen.
They like it there.
Maybe you want to say to me, "Lily, I really do want more."
I understand.
You are allowed to want more.
Dream of the bigger house, if you like.
Just do not call your hill ugly while you wait.
A hill is not a small mountain.
It is a whole hill.
My last picture is a tiny one, about two children.
I keep it very close to my heart.
Imagine two little girls on a bedroom floor, on a rainy Sunday afternoon.
They are best friends, both seven years old.
There are hair clips everywhere, pink ones, yellow ones, a blue one shaped like
a star.
One girl has straight black hair, smooth like The water.
other girl has big curls that go everywhere at The once.
girl with curls pulls at her hair and "I sighs.
wish I had your hair."
"Yours is so easy."
Her friend stares "But at her.
I want your curls!"
"Yours jump when you run."
In the doorway, one of their mothers is listening, with a basket of laundry
on her hip.
She starts to laugh.
"Look at you two," she says.
"Each of you is wishing to be the other."
The girls look at each other.
Then they laugh too.
Click, click, the hair clips go back in.
My friend, we do this all our lives.
You look at her straight hair.
She looks at your curls.
And neither of you can see your own.
So hear this part slowly.
Somewhere tonight, someone is looking at your life.
Maybe she wishes she had your laugh.
Or your quiet Sunday mornings.
Or the friend who still calls you after twenty years.
Somewhere, someone is looking at your life and wishing.
Look at it too, with the same kind eyes.
Here is my gentle invitation for you tonight.
The next time you reach for your phone tonight, open your own album first.
Find one photo of your own life that makes you smile.
Only one.
Not the best one.
Maybe your eyes are closed.
Maybe there is laundry on a chair behind you.
That is fine.
Look at it for one whole minute.
Then hold that photo close to your heart, and say this slowly.
"My life is not a race."
"I am becoming proud of my own life."
Your voice may shake a little the first time.
That is okay.
After that, open your phone if you want.
This time, you will be looking from home.
Let me remind you of what we talked about today.
We talked about the photo album.
Your whole album, their one best photo.
We talked about the shopping list on the fridge.
Nobody else has your handwriting.
We talked about the woman in lane three.
Every look at her lane slowed her down.
We talked about the little green hill.
It is not a small mountain.
And we talked about the two girls and their hair.
Someone is wishing for your life too.
So hold your album by the edges.
Write your list in your own round letters.
Keep your eyes on your own blue line.
Sit on your hill when the sun goes down.
Be proud of your own life, my friend.
Not because it is better than anyone's,
but because it is yours, and nobody else can live it.
Tomorrow, if your phone makes you feel small,
think of the girl with the curls.
Thank you for being here with me today, my friend.
Thank you for giving yourself this quiet time.
It means more than you know.
If this episode brought you a little peace, please tap like and subscribe.
It helps someone else find this place when they need it most.
And tell me in the comments,
is there one small thing you want to celebrate?
Write, "This week I will celebrate my own,"
and then one small thing from your life.
I read every one.
Rest your heart tonight.
I am proud of you for being here.
Goodbye for now, my friend.