So, here’s the thing—I’ve got this little situation going on with my heart. It’s called atrial fibrillation, or a-fib, and if you don’t know what that is, feel free to Google it. I’m officially too tired of explaining it to give you the full rundown.

For the layperson, though, let me put it like this: imagine Orville Redenbacher popping popcorn in your chest. Then add someone playing tennis at full speed and the soundtrack of “Dueling Banjos” to the mix. Now picture that chaos happening 24/7, and you’re starting to get the vibe.

Here’s the kicker: a lot of people with a-fib don’t feel it. Not me. I feel everything. Every skip, flutter, and erratic beat. It’s like having a rave in my ribcage that I didn’t RSVP to. And let me tell you, it’s exhausting. My heart rate bounces between 75 and 140 beats per minute for no apparent reason, so it’s like I’m running a marathon every single day—but without the medals or the carb-loading rewards.

Right now, I’m waiting to get into the hospital for a procedure that will hopefully fix the rhythm and bring me back to some version of normal. Whatever “normal” even is anymore. I’d like to get back to adulting—you know, doing things like exercising, running errands, and moving about the cabin freely without feeling like I’m dragging myself through quicksand. But until then, I’m on pause, and I’m not thrilled about it.

The other day, I was talking to a friend about some stuff going on in her life, and she said those dreaded words: “Well, compared to you, I have nothing to complain about.”

Hold on. Just wait a ding-dang minute.

I stopped her right there because that kind of thinking drives me nuts. Just because she doesn’t have popcorn, tennis, and banjos happening in her chest doesn’t mean her problems aren’t valid. It’s not a competition, people! Your stuff doesn’t have to outdo someone else’s to matter.

What I told her was this: everybody’s got stuff. Her stuff is big to her, and my stuff is big to me. Pain is not a contest. There’s no trophy for “Most Suffering,” no leaderboard ranking who’s struggling the hardest. We all carry our own burdens, and guess what? They’re all heavy.

This whole conversation made me realize how deeply ingrained this “someone always has it worse” mindset is—especially for those of us raised in the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s. It’s practically a generational mantra. Sure, it’s technically true. But just because someone somewhere might be dealing with something worse doesn’t mean you have to brush off what you’re feeling.

Like, look at the wildfires in California. It doesn’t matter if you’re losing a mansion or a modest little home—fire doesn’t discriminate. Loss is loss. Tragedy is tragedy. It doesn’t matter where you come from or what you have; when disaster hits, it hits.

Or think about all the other awful things happening out there. Illnesses. Car accidents. Violence. There’s no shortage of terrible stuff in the world, but that doesn’t mean your challenges don’t matter.

Here’s the thing: your struggles are just as important as anyone else’s. I don’t have a monopoly on feeling bad just because I have a heart arrhythmia. We’ve got to stop comparing pain and start supporting each other instead.

So when my friend shared what she was going through, I didn’t dismiss it. I told her I was sorry, asked how I could help, and let her know I cared. That’s what we’re supposed to do—connect, listen, and hold space for each other. Nobody wins when we’re stuck in this cycle of “well, at least you don’t have it as bad as insert person here.”

If I could reprogram this outdated way of thinking, I’d tell people this: It’s OK to not be OK. It’s OK to feel frustrated, upset, or downright miserable about what’s happening to you—even if someone else’s situation might look “worse” on paper. Feel your feelings. Validate your experience. And for goodness’ sake, stop comparing yourself to everyone else.

Thanks for coming to my insomnia TED Talk. You’re now free to return to your regularly scheduled programming.