Yara’s mornings often began with a glance in the mirror and a silent tally of what she lacked. At the office, there was Layla, her makeup always flawless, lips painted just right, lashes curled to perfection. Layla’s Jimmy Choo heels clicked confidently down the hallway, and every week, a new bouquet arrived at her desk, with cards from admirers Yara had never met. Layla’s laughter floated above the cubicles, light and easy, as if the world itself leaned in to listen.
On Sundays, Yara watched Sarah glide into church, tall and graceful, with a figure that drew eyes even through loose-fitting dresses. Her presence seemed effortless, her beauty a kind of silent command. Yara, smaller and slight, felt herself shrinking in the pew, tugging at her sleeves, wishing she could disappear into the hymnbook.
Her French teacher, Camille, was her own brand of dazzling. Only a few years older, Camille spoke four languages, commanded five streams of income, and was known internationally as an interpreter for multinationals. She never wore makeup, but her skin was flawless, her teeth white and straight. Yara, meanwhile, hid her yellowing teeth behind her hand, dabbing at stubborn black spots and pigmentation that resisted every expensive cream she tried. Even the French conjugations seemed to mock her, dancing just out of reach.
At the salon, Yara always seemed to bump into Samira, the woman with thick, glossy black hair and natural nails that needed no polish. Whenever the stylists oohed and aahed over Samira’s hair, gushing about its length and shine, she would always, almost too quickly, say, “It’s just a gift from God, I don’t have to do much at all.”; The words, meant to sound humble, only deepened the ache in Yara’s chest as she glanced at her own bitten nails and tired hair that stubbornly refused to grow. She had only gone in to fix one broken nail, now another.
Then there were the women on Instagram—the Sofias, Leilas, and Giselles—posing with perfect men, showing off diamond rings, SUVs, and grand gestures in sunlit photos. Their pages were curated galleries of flawless figures, sun-kissed skin, and trips to the most exotic countries and spaces, every image capturing their men cradling them against breathtaking backdrops. Their captions spoke of answered prayers and fairytale love. Yara, meanwhile, attracted only the unstable, the uncertain, the ones who left her feeling emptier than before.
On LinkedIn, her feed was a parade of achievements: advanced degrees, new qualifications, scholarships, international jobs, exam passes. These were the Anna’s, Mo’s, and Elizabeth’s—each post a reminder of what she hadn’t done, what she might never do.
Comparison ached like a bruise; Yara kept pressing. It colored her days, whispering that she was always behind, always diminished.
After moments of encountering all of them—Sarah first, radiant and composed at the early morning prayer meeting; then Layla with her effortless charm at the office; Camille next, dazzling in her online class as she moved effortlessly between French, English, and Spanish; Samira at the salon, graciously accepting compliments on how soft her feet were and how lovely her nails had been growing during the mani-pedi; the Sofias, Leilas, Anna’s and Mo’s lighting up her phone with their curated, sunlit escapes and delighted to announce captions—Yara felt a heaviness settle in her chest. Was this just a self-esteem issue, she wondered, or something deeper? Why did every interaction leave her feeling smaller, less certain of her worth?
Yara found herself sitting alone, listening to a sermon while watching the city lights flicker against the dusk. She caught her reflection in the window—tired, unadorned, utterly honest. In that stillness, and as if a divine presence had been listening, the preacher said, “The soul grows not in applause, but in the silent spaces where no one is watching.”; She wasn’t entirely sure what this meant, but it struck her that the women she envied must also have their own silent spaces, hidden from the world’s gaze.
Yet the ache did not simply vanish. It settled quietly within her, a reminder that the world’s shine was often just a polished surface. It occurred to her that every flawless image might be stitched with longing and doubt. That evening, she learned to greet her ache not as an enemy, but as a quiet companion, one that pointed her back to herself, and to the small, unglamorous acts of courage that made her real.
