I’m Better Than You

My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, snapping together as quickly as a Rubik’s Cube champion. I’m filling in dents and dings with plaster; painting over them doesn’t make it perfect, but it’s something.

Our beliefs are just an amalgamation of everything around us. But they are not us. My beliefs are not me. They’re like the gnats and spiders that sneak into my house uninvited. Some I let stay—like the belief that everyone deserves respect. That one feels more like a guiding light than a rule.

But I was taught plenty of beliefs that are harmful, demeaning, and reductive. “I know better” is a big one for me. I don’t often say it aloud—or even think it clearly—but it hums underneath as if my experiences should be given more weight than yours.

That belief makes me a bully sometimes.

“I am better” is another one I have to watch. Because once that web starts spinning and I walk into it, I don’t just lose connection—I lose growth. Instead of leaning in with curiosity, I climb a ladder and remove myself from learning.

And yet, I love growing. I love naming the cobwebs and using the brush of self-compassion and presence to sweep them away.

I’m not afraid of my beliefs. I’m not afraid of yours either.

A deeply wounded man sat in my counseling office yesterday and said, “First is God, then is man, and then is woman.” In that moment, by his belief, I ranked third. That belief minimized me. But he showed up. And he is allowed his hurt—even when that hurt builds walls that box others out.

Will I work with him until he can name and release that belief to the wind? Of course. But I won’t punish him for it. Shame is not what he came for.

So I love him. I respect him. I treat him as an equal. And maybe—just maybe—somewhere along the way, he’ll blink himself awake. He’ll realize that someone saw him fully, wounds and all, and chose to love him anyway.

On the flip side: I was watching a podcast with a white woman interviewing a Black man. When she assumed he lived in an apartment, I made the same assumption. And instantly, I felt guilty. As if I had done something terrible.

But had I? All that happened was that my assumption was wrong. And just like I offered grace to the man in my office, I will offer grace to this part of myself too.

Every time I climb a rung and start believing I’m better, it becomes dangerous. It’s from that imagined kingdom that I hurt others. And from there, there’s always a long way to go.

So I remind myself:
Stay right-sized.
Stay curious about your judgments, your assumptions, and your “better than” moments.
Check your perceptions—they’re often illusions.
Do that, and your inner fortress can weather the wounds of others—and begin to heal your own.

As always, take care. And thank you so much for being here.

Love, Jaclynn