Paul Brian
Sometimes I catch myself replaying tiny moments where I was sure I came out on top—winning a trivia night, snagging the better parking spot, or even outwitting someone in a casual conversation.
But as the replay loops, there’s this subtle hollowness beneath the surface, a sense that the victory is more fragile than fulfilling.
Our modern world often sells us the story that winning—at all costs—gives life meaning. I once believed it. I wrote to-do lists like a general planning a siege and measured success with ticking boxes.
But over time, that winning impulse started to gnaw at me. It was subtle: a restless feeling that, despite my achievements, some deeper thirst remained unquenched.
I suspect many of us feel this. We scroll through social media and see people thriving: new promotions, exotic vacations, curated highlight reels. If we can’t top the best thing we’ve seen, our minds start quietly wondering if we’re falling behind.
There’s an uneasy voice hissing that we’re never enough. In Buddhist philosophy—something I’ve studied for years—desire itself isn’t inherently bad, but unchecked craving becomes a trap.
The trouble with competition is that it feels natural until it defines who we are and how we measure ourselves against others.
I remember a teacher once told me, “Your only real competition is between who you are and who you imagine you should be.” At first, I loved that.
But later I realized I was still hooking my value onto an ideal image. I wasn’t just striving to be better—I needed to confirm I was better. And if I wasn’t, I felt like a failure.
That perspective shift helped me see how ambition and identity can get entangled. Somewhere in chasing growth, I was still feeding the same craving for validation that had fueled external competition.
Culture puts a shiny gloss on competitiveness. We’re told to push harder, be the best, stand out. And yes, adversity teaches resilience. But there’s a line between healthy ambition and the deeper hunger for status.
The Buddha talked about attachment creeping into our psyche, binding us with illusions of permanence and control. In psychological terms, our ego gets addicted to metrics—points, trophies, salaries.
I’ve experienced this firsthand. I once went from simply wanting to publish a piece to obsessing over getting the biggest headline in my field. My mood started fluctuating with every bit of external feedback. At some point, I realized I wasn’t enjoying the work—I was riding a rollercoaster of approval.
We live in a world flooded with success stories. Reality TV thrives on pitting people against one another. Online platforms rank us. Swipe left or right, upvote or ignore.
We start believing rivalry is the norm. When life doesn’t match that level of constant excitement, we grow uneasy. The line between healthy motivation and status anxiety blurs. And what we call “drive” might actually be a quiet panic about falling behind.
A friend once told me that scrolling through people’s updates left her both inspired and paralyzed. She’d cheer others on—but an hour later, she’d spiral into doubt. She’d start second-guessing her own career, wondering if she was doing enough.
That’s the trick of subtle competitiveness. Outwardly, we’re supportive. Internally, we’re comparing. It’s like the mind creates an invisible scoreboard that no one else sees.
Psychology calls this social comparison. We measure ourselves against peers to assess our own value. But when we lean too heavily on these comparisons, we distort our self-image.
From a Buddhist lens, it’s clinging—grasping at a self built on being better than someone else.
And when your happiness depends on comparison, it’s never stable. There’s always a taller mountain, a shinier success, another highlight reel.
The media doesn’t help. It blends success with worthiness. Ads, influencers, and transformation stories all reinforce the idea that we must hustle constantly to matter.
I’ve felt that pull. I’ve been driven more by the fear of irrelevance than the joy of creation. Even when I reached certain goals, the satisfaction was fleeting. It left a hollowness.
Competition can be useful when it’s born of curiosity and passion. In Buddhist tradition, monks debate the Dharma not to defeat each other, but to sharpen insight. The goal is shared understanding.
But in modern culture, we’ve lost that sense of collaborative growth. We slip into quiet rivalries. We measure. We rank. And we don’t even realize we’re doing it.
When I first explored Buddhist thought, some people around me assumed I was giving up on success. They equated letting go with being passive. But that’s not it.
Letting go of grasping allows for deeper engagement. It clears space. It doesn’t numb drive—it refines it.
Eventually, I started noticing how competition showed up in everyday moments. A flicker of envy. A sudden urge to outperform someone. Even the odd sense of relief when I was doing better than a peer.
None of these emotions made me a bad person—but they were signals. Signs that something deeper was unsettled.
Over time, I started unraveling my own attachment to being “the best.” That need had grown too heavy. I began questioning the belief system behind it.
We wear busyness and ambition like armor, as if being endlessly occupied proves our relevance. But that constant tension? It quietly drains the soul.
If our worth hinges on being ahead of others, then peace becomes impossible. Tension turns into the baseline emotional state. It keeps us from breathing fully.
And what’s behind it all? Often, it’s just a wish to be accepted. The drive to be first is really a longing to be seen. To be valued.
The Buddha taught that all things arise and pass away—including our illusions of who we need to be. That truth can be terrifying—but also freeing. It invites us to loosen the grip, to walk without measuring every step.
The scaffolding we build around ourselves—titles, metrics, wins—is fragile. Dismantling it takes courage. Underneath, there’s the raw self. Uncertain, unpolished. But it’s there that real growth happens.
I remember the first time I realized my competitiveness had worn me out. I felt momentarily unmoored—like I had lost my edge. But in that space, something else emerged. I could create without performing. I could connect without scanning the room. I could just be.
We can’t remove competition from the world. It’s in our systems, our stories, our psychology. But we can relate to it differently. We can notice when it becomes toxic. When motivation turns into misery. That shift is subtle, but essential.
We carry stories about what we must achieve to deserve love or respect. These stories often start young. But they’re not fixed.
In Buddhist thought, identity is fluid. Impermanent. We can observe it. We can soften it. And in that softening, compassion grows—not just for ourselves, but for others caught in the same race.
These days, when that old need to prove myself shows up, I don’t fight it. I acknowledge it. I let it pass.
I remind myself that every person’s path is shaped by countless unseen causes and conditions. My path is no different. It doesn’t need to be better or faster. Just true.
And so, the question shifts—from “How do I outdo everyone?” to “Who am I when I stop chasing validation?”
We might not have a clear answer. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s enough to keep asking with honesty.
To pause when we feel the inner scoreboard light up. And in that pause, we might find something softer. Something freer. A quiet kind of worth that doesn’t need to win to be real.
