The glow of her phone screen was the last thing Amina saw before she fell asleep—and the first thing she stared at when she woke up. Social media had become a constant, unavoidable background noise in her life. She hated how much it affected her, but some days she couldn't resist scrolling, hoping to find a little piece of connection, a reminder that she wasn't alone in her loneliness.
That morning was no different. She opened Instagram and saw photos of smiling friends at parties she wasn't invited to, pictures of couples wrapped in warmth and affection, perfect faces framed by perfect lighting.
Her chest tightened. The familiar ache returned—the feeling that everyone had found their place, everyone was chosen, and she was still waiting.
She remembered something a friend once said: "Social media is just a highlight reel." But the truth was, it didn't always feel like that when the reel was all you saw. It felt like a constant comparison game where she always lost.
Her best friend Tasha, who once seemed inseparable, was tagged in a dozen photos with new friends, laughter in their eyes, places Amina didn't know. The brunch she'd been left out of was now a story, with no mention of her.
She put down her phone, feeling a sharp sting behind her eyes. The world was moving forward without her.
At work, Amina tried to bury the ache beneath her usual smile and steady hands. But her mind kept wandering back to the photos, the captions, the way she felt invisible in real life and online alike.
She thought about Sarah, a young woman she'd met recently during a company workshop. Sarah had told her once about growing up feeling "different" and "not enough" compared to her peers who had perfect families and relationships.
"I kept trying to fit into someone else's idea of happy," Sarah said quietly. "It wasn't until I stopped looking sideways at everyone else and started walking my own path that I found peace."
Amina wanted to believe that. She wanted to trust that comparison didn't have to be a thief of joy.
That night, she took a deep breath and made a decision. She opened her phone and started unfollowing accounts that made her feel small—pages that glorified perfection and filtered realities. She began to follow others who shared stories of struggle and healing—women who spoke about self-love in honest, messy ways.
She found an account run by a woman named Leila who wrote daily affirmations and shared her journey out of toxic relationships. Reading Leila's words felt like someone had finally understood the knot in Amina's chest.
"You are not behind. You are not unlovable. You are living a life that is uniquely yours," Leila's latest post read.
Amina saved it and read it again.
Uniqueness. That word felt like a soft promise.
The next morning, Amina looked in the mirror and faced herself with a gentler gaze. She spoke aloud, "You are not less because someone else's story looks different. You are not less because their happiness looks bigger."
It felt awkward but necessary.
She realized how often she had measured her worth by the love she didn't receive, the invitations that never came, the attention that never stayed.
But what if worth wasn't about what she was given?
What if it was about what she gave herself?
Her phone buzzed with a message from Tasha:
"Hey, sorry about last week. Been busy. Miss you."
Amina read it twice. Her heart fluttered, wanting to say yes to reunion, to forgiveness, to normal.
But she hesitated.
She wasn't the same person who waited for apologies that never felt sincere.
Instead, she typed back carefully: "Miss you too. Let's talk soon."
Not a promise. Not a surrender.
Just space.
That night, Amina lit a candle and sat with her journal. She wrote:
"Today, I let go of the stories I tell myself about not being enough. I am choosing to celebrate the small victories—waking up, standing up, choosing myself."
She paused and added,
"Comparison steals joy. I am learning to find joy in my own journey."
She closed the book and smiled softly.
The weeks that followed weren't perfect. Some days the old feelings surged like storms, threatening to pull her under. But now, she had tools—words, boundaries, and a new lens to see herself through.
She remembered the lesson she'd read in Leila's posts: self-love wasn't a destination, but a practice. A daily choice to treat yourself with kindness even when the world doesn't.
One evening, as she walked home under the streetlights, Amina caught her reflection in a shop window. For the first time in a long time, she didn't turn away.
She saw a woman who was tired but brave. A woman who loved hard, gave more than she should have, and was learning to keep some love for herself.
Amina whispered, "I am enough."
And for the first time, it felt like the truth.