Jealousy: A Mirror of Lost Time and Untapped Potential
Jealousy is more than a fleeting bitterness; it’s a visceral reminder of what could have been. When someone looks at you and judges the steps you’ve taken—those leaps of faith, the tireless hours of effort, the risks that have left you exposed — they’re not just critiquing you. They’re confronting a version of themselves they never dared to become.
You serve as a mirror, reflecting the opportunities they let slip away, the dreams they left untouched. Your progress becomes their regret, your courage a sharp contrast to their hesitation. It’s not you they find hard to look at — it’s what you represent: a chance they didn’t take, a future they can no longer claim.
For those who choose judgment over action, time becomes a cruel passage. While they sit in the comfort of critique, you are moving forward. And yes, that movement includes stumbles, failures, and blocks. But the point is this: you’re moving. Each misstep is a lesson, each block an opportunity to pivot, to grow. Meanwhile, the ones who stay stagnant remain tethered to their comfort zones, watching the passage of time with increasing self-doubt, regret, and perhaps even self-hatred. They wallow, not because they lack the ability to act, but because action requires vulnerability — something they refuse to risk.
Jealousy is their way of coping. It’s easier to criticize someone forging ahead than to reckon with their own inertia. But this is not your burden to carry. Their judgment does not define your journey. Instead, it is a reflection of theirs: static, unfulfilled, and weighed down by the heavy chains of “what if.” So let them judge. Let them project. While they remain where they are, you are shaping the future you’ve always envisioned for yourself. Time, after all, moves forward, and you’ve learned how to float through its currents, navigating every obstacle in your way. They will stay behind, tangled in the comfort of their regrets, while you, with all your scars and victories, will keep building the life they can only dream of.
The Coward vs. the Courageous
Dr. Brené Brown, a renowned researcher and author on vulnerability and courage, once said, “Vulnerability is not weakness; it’s our most accurate measure of courage.” To put yourself out there—flawed, imperfect, exposed—is to walk through the fire. It's an act that asks for both strength and surrender. In those moments of putting yourself on the line, you realize that you can’t control the outcome, but you can control the courage it takes to show up.
Cowards, on the other hand, never step into the flames. They stay on the sidelines, offering critiques and judgments, avoiding risk because it’s safer to point fingers than to participate. Judging is easy. Creating, sharing, risking failure? That takes guts. Those who stay in the comfort of critique may never know the exhilaration of trying, of stepping into the arena and taking the punches. And for those of us who choose to take the risk, the journey is about more than the final result — it’s about embracing the willingness to fall and get up again, to create even when the world seems to resist.
Chris Williamson, host of the Modern Wisdom podcast, touches on an idea that complements Brown’s thoughts: the inevitability of regret. A former reality TV star turned self-development enthusiast, Chris delves deep into the human condition. One of his most profound insights revolves around the two types of regret we face in life: the regret of action, and the regret of inaction. As Chris so thoughtfully puts it, we will regret things — we cannot escape that reality. But the real question is which regret will we choose to carry? For Chris, and for many of us, the regret of not taking action, of staying stagnant in our comfort zone, is the more crushing of the two. Every now and then, I still hear Chris' wisdom in my head, somewhere along the lines of, “I’d rather regret doing something and failing than regret never trying at all.”
I align with this notion wholeheartedly. As a writer, I’ve shared parts of my life that aren’t polished or pretty —failures, embarrassing moments, and periods of doubt. And every time I hit post or send, I wrestle with the question: Am I too much? Too little? Am I attention-seeking? But in that discomfort, I realize something: I’m stepping into the arena. I’m taking the risk. Choosing vulnerability is an act of courage, and it’s one that’s not always rewarded with instant validation. But when I think of how much I could regret later if I never took the leap — if I never wrote those words, shared those thoughts, or took those risks — it drives me forward. The irony is, many of us fear judgment from others because we’re so afraid of not being enough. But when we choose to not take action, when we stay in our comfort zones, that silence is its own form of regret. And that’s the hardest thing to live with: the knowledge that we could have been more, done more, but chose not to act.
Chris Williamson’s concept of regret — choosing between action and inaction — is a wake-up call. When we’re faced with a choice, we must consider which regret is worth the risk. For me, I’d rather regret taking action and failing than regret staying stagnant. I’d rather look back when I’m older, with lines and wrinkles marking my years, and say that I lived with intention, even if it meant failing along the way, than to wonder about the things I never dared to do. When we make the choice to act, even when it feels risky or uncertain, we choose the courage to shape our own future. It may come with setbacks, it may not always look as graceful as we imagined, but we know that the journey, the action itself, is worthwhile. So, the next time you find yourself hesitating, ask yourself which regret is more painful: the one where you dared greatly or the one where you stayed silent, too afraid to try.
The Man in the Arena
Theodore Roosevelt, the 26th President of the United States, captured this sentiment perfectly in his iconic Man in the Arena speech. Delivered at the Sorbonne in Paris, this speech was part of a broader discourse on striving toward meaningful goals despite the risks of failure. In it, Roosevelt presents a sharp contrast between those who dare to act and those who stand in judgment:
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.”
Roosevelt’s words resonate so deeply with me that I even considered having an illustration of this part of the speech tattooed on my back. Sometimes, I still have that impulsive thought, because that's how much it means to me. The idea of being in the arena, facing challenges, striving toward something bigger than myself — it’s an image that has inspired and pushed me forward in ways that words alone could not Roosevelt’s distinction between the critics and the doers is powerful. The critic, sitting safely in the stands, is quick to point out every flaw, every missed opportunity. But the doer, the one in the arena, is the one who bears the weight of their choices. They sweat, bleed, and sometimes fall short. But they try. And that’s where the true value lies — not in the perfection of the result, but in the courage to take action, even in the face of uncertainty.
When you feel the weight of judgment pressing down on you, remember this: the critic does not count. Their words are hollow, born from a place of inaction. The voices that matter come from those who, like you, have faced the dust, the sweat, and the fear. They understand the cost of taking risks, and they know the triumph of daring greatly, even if that triumph doesn’t look like success in the conventional sense. To live courageously is to accept that failure is part of the process. It is to choose action over inaction, knowing full well that the cost is vulnerability. But as Roosevelt reminds us, even in failure, there is honor in daring greatly. To be in the arena is to live fully — imperfect, uncertain, but always moving forward.
Final Thoughts
Jealousy, fear, and judgment — they will always exist. But they do not have to define your path. The world needs more people who are willing to step into the arena, knowing they might fail but daring to try anyway. So, the next time you hesitate to share your story, to take a leap, or to risk being judged, remember this: the critic does not count, but you do. Show up. Dare greatly. Make it worthwhile.
Comments