I have tiny baby sagging bajungas.

Hers are BIG, perky and beauuuutiful.

She’s better than me.

I don’t work. Don’t make any money. AND I can’t keep my house in order.

She works AND makes money AND her house is immaculate.

She’s better than me.

I can’t look “put-together” to save my life.

She always looks like perfection, and she’s a doctor, so she literally saves lives.

She’s better than me.

I yell and sometimes curse and I grunt too.

She’s always so zen and namaste.

She’s better than me.

I binge eat cheese, drink wine and stay up ungodly late watching Netflix.

She cooks AND EATS “real meals,” drinks tea and goes to bed at the same time as her kids.

She’s better than me.

I wake up and grump.

She wakes up, meditates and gets glam.

She’s better than me.

Or maybe she’s not.

Maybe we’re just, what’s that word…DIFFERENT.

And perhaps that’s okay.

In fact, I dare challenge all women, myself included, to throw comparison out the -effin' window and while that window is open, invite in grace and love for ourselves and ALL the amazing that we undeniably are.

Ain’t nobody better than you because no one is a better YOU than YOU, and if you were her, with her

perky boobs,

a well-paying, people-helping job,

a clean house,

a good look,

a calm demeanor

and a palate that prefers all things healthy and homemade,

you might not be happy.

Not as happy as you are.

And get this: she might not be as happy as you think she is.

They say comparison is the thief of joy, and it is, but it’s partner in crime is self-deprecation and it’ll serve you well to send ‘em both packing while you stock up on self-confidence, self-love, forgiveness, unconditional self-acceptance and unwavering self-appreciation.