Your Worst is Still Your Worst: Pain without Comparison

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Pain shot through my body as my fingernails dug into my palms, white knuckles straining against my tight skin as I clutched my hands into fists.

“I’m just, like, so stressed out. I don’t even know what to do. I have to do well on this exam,” the girl kept chatting to her friend as the bus rattled over a bump. Her voice pitched higher with each complaint. “I can’t even think about what would happen if I got a B again.” 

I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to give her a taste of my reality, one where my aunt’s life was literally hanging in the balance.

How could she possibly be complaining about a calculus exam while my aunt was dying?!

Bitterness coated my mouth, rage shaking my body. I’d give anything to have HER problems instead.

This wasn’t the only time this happened to me. My friends would try venting to me about their problems, but I’d have the same reaction. I was in the midst of a literal crisis—my aunt in hospice after losing my cousin the year before and my grandmother two years before that. I had no room left in me for empathy. 

Instead, I became the grief police. And I was ruthless. 

No one’s problems were worse than mine. My problems set the bar, and no one could possibly reach it.

It took me years to realize that the worst thing that’s ever happened to you is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you—no matter what anyone else has been through. Including me.

But I had to learn this lesson the hard way. First by judging everyone else’s pain. Then by being judged for mine.

When Loss Makes You Cruel

I lost four family members in six years. Growing up in a Filipino family means it wasn’t uncommon to see my entire family (uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents) at least twice a month. We were all very close, so when we lost my Lola, young cousin (Maddy), Aunt Terry, and Lolo in the span of six years, it was tough.

My world divided into “people who know real loss” versus “people who don’t”. I see now it was a protective instinct, but I started to use grief as a measuring stick for life’s problems. I created my own grief hierarchy where everyone else’s pain felt insulting. No one was allowed to be more sad than me (except for direct family members of the ones we lost; that was my “exception”), and no one had it as hard as me and my family.

Finance homework? Are you KIDDING me? Breakups? Please. Work stress? Try losing four family members and THEN talk to me.

I’d roll my eyes when friends complained. I’d mentally check out of conversations where people vented about “trivial” problems. Part of me wanted them to feel what I felt—to understand what “REAL” pain was like. Another part of me wanted them to just shut up and be grateful for their easy lives.

I became impossible to talk to. Friends stopped sharing their struggles with me. And honestly? I didn’t care. Their problems felt like an insult to my grief.

This Pattern Is Ancient

Job lost everything—all ten of his children, his wealth, his health. And his friends showed up claiming to comfort him. Instead, they became what Job called “miserable comforters” (Job 16:2).

They compared his suffering. They told him he must have done something to deserve it. They made his pain about their theories instead of about his actual experience.

Job, who had experienced catastrophic loss, STILL got judged for his pain. Even his grief wasn’t “right” according to his friends.

If Job—who lost literally everything—couldn’t win the comparison game, what chance do the rest of us have?

I had become Job’s friends. Showing up to people’s pain only to make it worse by measuring it against my own.

I wish I’d recognized this pattern in myself sooner. But it took experiencing both sides of the comparison trap to finally understand.

I was in college when we lost my Lola, Maddy, and Aunt Terry so of course, being away from home was devastating to my mental health. I was descending into depression—I didn’t know it yet—and started going to therapy.

It happened when I joined a grief group. I was hoping to connect with people who had “real” problems, like me.

But what I got instead was a taste of my own medicine.

The Shame Phase

I fidgeted in my seat, the hard plastic cutting into my thighs, fingers knotted together as I explained my losses. Heat rushed to my face when I learned the other members of my group had lost parents and children. I felt completely inadequate. I had “only” lost extended family. Who was I to complain when these people lost their mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters? I suddenly felt like a fraud for being there.

My mind flashed back to that girl on the bus complaining about her calculus exam. 

Is my grief group judging me like I had judged her?

Guilt added itself to the shame pitting in my stomach as I realized the irony. If someone with “legitimate” trauma feels inadequate, is the whole system broken? Is there really a scale at all?

My dad used to tell me, “They don’t know any better. The worst thing that’s happened to them is the worst thing that’s ever happened to them. How are they supposed to know any differently?”

The Impossible Math of Pain

That became my mantra: The worst thing that’s ever happened to you is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. Pain isn’t competitive math. Your pain isn’t cancelled out because someone has experienced “worse” pain. If it was, no one would be allowed to feel pain. Yes, someone else will probably always have it worse than you, but it doesn’t mean your pain isn’t valid. Your worst will always be 100% to you.

I remember the white glow of my laptop straining my eyes as I typed furiously in my journal the night after my grief group. 

“My fish dying is probably a 0.4 on the sadness scale though. Maddy, Lola, and Aunt Terry would be an 8.5. I’d say 9 for them, but I think a 9 or 10 would be more for a spouse or child,” I wrote.

I created my own “sadness scale”. I think I made it to justify my grief but also to “put it in perspective”. But who decides the scale, if there even is one? Would a fish dying be a 0.4 on the scale for someone whose fish was their only companion? What about someone who had an abusive parent die—does relief disqualify grief?

The problem is someone will ALWAYS have it worse. If we follow this logic, that means only ONE person on earth gets to complain.

Why We Compare (And Why It’s Toxic)

The Defense Mechanism

Comparison works in two directions. Sometimes I used it to maximize my pain—insisting mine was the worst, which gave me a twisted sense of validation. Other times I used it to minimize my pain—telling myself others had it worse, which I thought would make it hurt less. Neither worked.

Leon Festinger developed the social comparison theory. This theory suggests we compare our pain to each other to determine whether our suffering is “valid” or not. Comparative suffering compares pain in an effort to downplay our own struggles or to feel better about our own situations. Thinking, “My problems aren’t as bad as theirs” can lead to minimizing our own valid feelings.

But comparison in Christian spaces takes on an extra layer of complexity.

In Christian circles, we may try to compare our pain to avoid feeling selfish or self-absorbed. When we add in weaponized Scripture like “count it all joy” or “give thanks in everything”, we may feel additional shame. We might feel pressured to have “inspirational” suffering in the sense that we can only suffer if an amazing transformation comes from it. 

And if I’m being completely honest, there was something darker driving my comparison game.

The Superiority Complex

Superiority.

As much as I hate to admit it, having “the worst” problems gave me a twisted sense of validation. My pain was REAL. My trauma was LEGITIMATE. Everyone else was just being dramatic.

It made me feel…important? Noticed? Like my suffering meant something because it was “worse” than others?

Looking back, I can see I was desperately trying to make meaning out of meaningless tragedy. If my pain was the “worst”, at least it counted for something. At least it was significant.

But that kind of validation comes at a cost—it requires everyone else’s pain to be “less than” for mine to matter. That’s not how pain works.

And this is why Maddy’s story became complicated for me.

​​Maddy’s Story

My cousin, Maddy, was 15 years old when she passed away from leukemia. She fought it for two years before passing in November 2013. She documented her battle, creating beautiful paintings and journals, posting on social media, and sharing her story with the world. Her story ended tragically, leaving behind her parents, older sister, extended family, and good friends. Others may have been inspired by Maddy—vowing to never take a second for granted, making sure to always “keep on shining”, living life to the fullest. But others may have viewed her journey as a way of minimizing their own pain. Maybe they even felt their pain wasn’t “worthy” compared to hers.

I even fell into this trap after she passed away. I didn’t think I was allowed to be as sad as Maddy’s parents and sister. I would almost punish myself for feeling devastated and would tell myself “well, they have it so much worse.” And of course, they did. But I psychologically, emotionally, and physically can’t possibly know how they feel. It’s literally impossible to fathom other people’s pain.

If my pain with losing Maddy was the worst pain I’ve lived through, it’s the worst pain I’ve lived through, no matter how much harder someone may have had it. Maddy’s family’s pain is valid, and mine is too. 

We can accept and acknowledge that others have it harder while maintaining the validity of our own experiences.

What’s tricky is the enemy knows exactly how to weaponize all of this.

How the Enemy Uses Comparison

Comparison ultimately helps no one, and the enemy knows it. Comparing pain silences people who need help. It creates shame around legitimate pain and prevents healing and community. We end up getting isolated from each other. Being around others either reminds us that our pain is “worse” or “not as bad as theirs”. So we all end up suffering in silence, wondering whose pain is “bad enough” to deserve care. 

And on the other side, believing our pain is superior to others only creates pride. We start to enjoy being the victim of so many tragedies that we turn from God when the healing part comes. Sometimes, we may avoid the healing part altogether because our trauma is “just too bad”. We put ourselves on a pain pedestal and look down at others, rolling our eyes at their “simple” problems.

What Your Nervous System Knows

If we look at the neuroscience of pain, we can see that our brains can’t process pain comparatively. Our nervous systems respond to OUR capacity, context, history. Not anyone else’s. Pain is subjective by neurological design.

Why We Can’t Fathom Others’ Pain

We can’t fathom others’ experiences. The girl on the bus complaining about her calculus exam? I have no way of knowing what the stress of the exam meant to HER nervous system. Maybe the test represented her entire future. Maybe she’d been through something else that week and this was the breaking point.

But when we look at the grief group, they couldn’t truly fathom my pain either.

Pain isn’t a mathematical equation. It’s neurological, emotional, and deeply personal for each and every one of us.

Why Comparison Prevents Healing

And comparison only impedes healing. Shame activates the same brain regions as physical pain. If we minimize our pain through comparison, we add shame-pain on top of grief-pain or trauma-pain, whatever pain we’re experiencing. Validation is essential for healing. We need our pain acknowledged and to know it’s valid. We can’t process what we’re not allowed to acknowledge.

Regardless of whether others had it worse or not, I ended up developing complicated grief and depression from the losses.

The bottom line is: your body keeps the score. It doesn’t care about pain rankings or hierarchies.

The Biblical Perspective

God Doesn’t Compare

God doesn’t compare pain or decide who gets to grieve and who doesn’t. Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” It doesn’t say God measures HOW brokenhearted we are before drawing near. Matthew 11:28-30 says, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest…For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” He tells us to come ALL who are weary, not “if the burden is heavy enough”. 2 Corinthians 1:4 says that God “comforts us in all our afflictions.” In ALL afflictions, not just sufficiently severe afflictions.

Jesus in the Garden

We can even look to Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. He knew he’d be resurrected in three days after being crucified, but He was still in anguish. He still asked God if there was another way. His pain was real even knowing the outcome.

Even temporary pain with guaranteed redemption was still PAIN.

Would we try to minimize the pain Jesus experienced and explain it away by saying, “well, He knew He’d be resurrected so…”? The same goes for our own pain.

The Hard Verse – Romans 8:28

I mentioned this in my previous post. After losing my family members, reading Romans 8:28 felt like a slap in the face.

“And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.”

I couldn’t imagine how any good could possibly come from losing Maddy at such a young age. I saw how deeply her death impacted others, including myself, and would scoff at the verse. But if we look at the full passage, we see that Paul doesn’t say that pain isn’t real. And he doesn’t say that everything is good all the time. It says God WORKS in terrible things.

My worst was still my worst AND God was present. I didn’t have to choose between those truths.

The Redemption (Without Minimizing)

Here’s what I learned from being on both sides. 

What I Learned from Being the Grief Police

When I was the ruthless, merciless grief police, being angry and comparing pain bred bitterness. I became so focused on who had it worse that I lost the ability to connect with anyone. I was isolated—not because people didn’t want to support me, but because I’d pushed everyone away by dismissing their experiences.

It made me cruel. I used my trauma as a weapon against people who were just trying to live their lives. That girl on the bus didn’t deserve my rage. My friends didn’t deserve my eye rolls. They were just…being human.

It didn’t actually help my grief. All that anger didn’t make me feel better. It didn’t bring my family back. It didn’t ease my pain. It just added bitterness on top of grief.

What I Learned from Feeling Inadequate

When I felt inadequate in my grief group, comparison bred shame. I was embarrassed to tell them who I’d lost. I imagined them thinking, “She lost some extended family members and is in a grief group? I lost my mother.”

It silenced me, too. I resisted speaking about my own pain for fear of it not being “bad enough”. I imagined the others in my group rolling their eyes at my “trivial” problems, just like I’d do to my own friends.

And this ultimately prevented me from healing. I only went to that grief group a handful of times before I stopped going altogether. I let my supposed inadequacy keep me from putting the work in and getting the most out of group therapy.

The Shift

We need to shift from “who has it worse?” to “how can I support someone in THEIR worst?”

That girl on the bus? She wasn’t my enemy. She was just experiencing her worst. How could I judge her when she literally doesn’t know any better? Who am I to invalidate that just because I’ve been through something “worse”? I had no idea what calculus meant in her nervous system. I only knew what it meant in mine at that moment.

Maddy’s Legacy

I’m posting this on the 12th anniversary of Maddy’s death. Twelve years later, I’m still not okay with it. I never will be. But Maddy taught me about real strength. About “Keep On Shining” even in the darkness.

My sister became a music therapist, my cousin is a pediatric doctor, and I started this blog to help people with faith and mental health. None of this makes Maddy’s death okay. My family would trade every single one of these redemptive outcomes to have Maddy back. And that feels like the right answer to me.

But purpose and pain can coexist. Maddy’s impact didn’t end with her death. Her story continues to bring light. Not because her death was good, but because God doesn’t waste our pain.

Permission Granted

Your pain doesn’t need permission. Your worst is your worst, period. We don’t need to qualify pain with disclaimers: “Well, it’s not as bad as that. At least, this didn’t happen. It’s not that bad compared to this.” And we don’t need to prove our pain is “bad enough” either. Healing doesn’t require us to rank our pain. And therapy isn’t just for problems that are “severe enough.” 

I wrote this in my journal all those years ago: “I pray that no one ever keeps themselves from going for fear of their problem not being ‘bad enough’. Any problem, no matter how minimal it seems compared to others, deserves to be looked at if you feel it will help you.”

I kept discounting therapy for myself because other members of my family didn’t seem to need it after the losses. I thought if they don’t need it, why would I? When I finally gave in and started going, I realized how helpful it was. I wrote the passage above after my first session. I saw that I was restricting healing for myself by not going for fear of someone having it worse than me.

How to Support Without Comparing

So, how do we offer support without comparing or ranking others’ pain? This is what I wish I could go back and tell myself. My poor friends put up with so much.

Instead of saying, “well, at least…”, try “that sounds really hard.” Sit in the pain with them without trying to fix it. Sometimes the most helpful thing we can do is just listen. We can validate without minimizing or explaining away the pain. And we need to remember that everyone’s 100% is different. What may be horrific to them may not be to you.

The worst thing that’s happened to you IS the worst thing that’s happened to you.

What I’d Tell My Younger Self

If I could go back on that bus, I’d first give myself a big hug and then make myself take a deep breath. I’d remind myself that that girl’s exam might actually be her worst thing right now. I don’t have a right to judge her nervous system responding to her context. I needed to extend grace to her situation while maintaining the validity of my own.

And if I could go back to my grief group, I’d tell myself that my losses are real and my pain valid. There’s no qualifier for grief. Anyone can grieve anyone, no matter the relationship. We don’t have to be the “most affected” to be sad about a loss.

Both truths can exist. That girl’s exam stress was real to her. My grief over my extended family is real to me. The ones in my grief group who lost parents? Their pain was real to them too. We’re all just trying to survive our worst. Comparison helps no one.

Instead of comparing, let’s extend grace to all and remember that our pain is valid too.

Maddy taught us to “Keep On Shining”, no matter the circumstances. We can shine through our dark times without comparing the darkness to someone else’s. And with that, start the journey toward healing.

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