Comparison is the Thief of Joy

(And Yes, I Needed That Reminder Too)
Tyler emailed me a question the other day that should have been simple.
“Are you familiar with Gayety’s Substack?”
I said yes automatically, the way you do when you sort of know something. I knew the site. I’d seen articles float past in feeds. One of those queer media brands that exists in the same digital neighborhood as all of us trying to build community online.
But the truth? I had no idea they even had a Substack.
Yesterday morning, curiosity got the better of me. I signed up for the free subscription and started poking around. Just a quick look. Harmless research. Totally innocent.
And then I saw the number.
230,000 followers.
You ever feel your brain quietly sit up straighter?
Because mine did.
They offer paid tiers. Two annual options, $199 and $299. Monthly access is $20. And before I even realized what was happening, my inner accountant had opened an imaginary calculator and started doing math nobody asked for.
GoNaked has about 12,000 people on our mailing list. I started translating percentages. If even a small slice of their audience converts to paid subscribers… what does that revenue look like? What kind of stability does that create? What kind of team could you build? What kind of breathing room would that buy?
And then, right on cue, the thought slipped in:
Why can’t I be that successful?
It didn’t arrive dramatically. It never does. It just slides into your head like background music you suddenly realize has been playing the whole time.
You start imagining alternate timelines. Bigger reach. Bigger impact. Less financial stress. The fantasy version of your own life where everything worked just a little better, scaled just a little faster.
And suddenly what you have feels smaller than it did five minutes ago.

Earlier this week, I was at a conference in Richmond.
I was walking behind this guy who clearly had a committed relationship with the gym and possibly a personal agreement with Satan. Mid-40s. Solid build. And an ass that made you reconsider your walking speed just so you could appreciate the view a little longer.
My brain, ever predictable, chimed in again.
"Why can’t I have a butt like that?"
No pause. No gratitude for the body carrying me through airports and time zones and late nights. Just instant comparison.
I turned the corner toward the escalator, still lost in my own nonsense, and there was another man riding down. Probably around 260 pounds. Hairy chest peeking through his shirt. Big open smile. Full, round belly. Voluptuous rump. Completely at ease in his own space, like the world wasn’t grading him and never had been.
And my fickle heart did this unexpected little flip.
New thought:
"Why can’t I be that confident?"
Same day. Same brain. Opposite comparisons.
That’s when I laughed at myself, because the absurdity finally became obvious.
It isn’t about what we lack. The target just keeps moving.

We do this with everything.
The bodies we have.
The age we are.
The homes we live in.
The size of our audience.
The size of our bank accounts.
Even the size of our dicks if we’re being honest.
We scroll, we observe, we measure, and without meaning to, we turn life into a constant audition for a role nobody assigned us.
And every comparison quietly steals something.
Joy leaves first. Gratitude follows right behind it.
Because while I was mentally shrinking my own accomplishments against someone else’s numbers, somewhere out there is a guy wishing he had a business that connected him with thousands of men. Someone wishing they had the freedom to travel. Someone wishing their health allowed them to even dream this big.
Perspective is humbling like that.
For every life you envy, someone else envies yours.

The lie comparison tells is seductive.
If I just had that, then I’d finally feel enough.
More followers. Better body. Bigger success. Different circumstances.
But enoughness doesn’t arrive with numbers. It arrives with awareness.
The guy with the perfect ass probably worries about aging.
The confident smiling man might wish for a smaller pants size.
The massive media company is almost certainly comparing themselves to someone even bigger.
There is no top of the mountain where comparison disappears. Only moments where we decide to stop climbing someone else’s path.

Standing there after signing up for Gayety’s newsletter, I caught myself spiraling and had to gently pull my own leash.
Look at what you’ve built.
Twelve thousand people isn’t small. It’s twelve thousand human beings choosing connection. Twelve thousand stories intersecting because you decided to create something instead of waiting for permission.
That matters.
And maybe the real practice isn’t eliminating comparison. Maybe it’s noticing it sooner. Smiling at it. Letting it pass without letting it rewrite your worth.
Because comparison will always show you what you don’t have.
Gratitude shows you what you already survived, built, loved, and created.
And if you sit quietly long enough, you realize something almost embarrassing in its simplicity:
Someone out there is looking at your life right now thinking,
"Why can’t I have what he has?"
That’s the moment you snap back.
That’s the moment joy walks back into the room.