Why are we all running a race nobody wants to win?

By Helene Waters

People are just weird.

Give us five minutes and we’ll turn almost anything into a competition.

Who’s the fastest.

Who’s the richest.

Who’s the smartest.

Who’s got the best coffee.

(It’s mine. I’m not taking questions.)

Somewhere along the way…

We also started competing over suffering.

It doesn’t happen intentionally.

Most of the time, we don’t even notice we’re doing it.

Someone says,

“I’m exhausted.”

Almost instinctively another voice replies,

“You think you’re exhausted?”

Someone says,

“I’ve been under so much stress lately.”

“At least you’ve still got a job.”

“My marriage ended.”

“At least they’re still alive.”

“I lost my husband.”

“At least you knew love.”

“I’m really struggling.”

“Other people have it far worse.”

And just like that…

The conversation changes.

It stops being about compassion…

…and starts becoming something else entirely.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy isn’t that we compare trauma. It’s that we often compare it to decide whether we’re allowed to ask for help.

Welcome…

…to The Trauma Derby.

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The Starting Gates

The announcer clears his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen…

Today’s runners have all travelled very different roads to get here.”

The gates fly open.

One horse bursts into the lead.

Cancer.

Another charges past.

The death of a spouse.

A third storms down the outside.

The death of a child.

Then another.

Sexual assault.

The rest of the field begins closing the gap.

Divorce.

Childhood abuse.

Domestic violence.

War.

PTSD.

Anxiety.

Depression.

Infertility.

Miscarriage.

Bullying.

Addiction.

Watching patients die.

Teaching children carrying unimaginable burdens.

Representing victims in court.

The commentator can barely contain himself.

“Who’s winning?”

“Who’s suffered the most?”

“Who’s finally earned the right to say…

‘I’m not okay.’?”

Then…

The race begins to make absolutely no sense.

Because one horse is carrying fifty kilograms.

Another is carrying none.

One began the race with an injured leg.

Another has trained its entire life.

One has thousands of people cheering from the grandstands.

Another has spent every kilometre completely alone.

One knows every bend in the track.

Another has never even seen a starting gate before today.

So why…

Why do we keep pretending they’re running the same race?

Perhaps because admitting every race is different means we’d have to stop deciding whose pain deserves the loudest applause.

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The Invisible Weight

Trauma isn’t defined by what happened.

It’s defined by what it changed.

Two people can experience exactly the same event.

One develops PTSD.

The other doesn’t.

Neither is weak.

Neither is stronger.

They’re simply different human beings.

Different nervous systems.

Different childhoods.

Different support systems.

Different coping mechanisms.

Different lives.

Likewise…

Two completely different experiences can leave behind exactly the same wound.

One person loses a spouse.

Another survives a violent assault.

Another grows up in a home where love always felt conditional.

Another spends years caring for someone they slowly watch disappear through illness.

Different events.

The same haunting questions.

“Am I safe?”

“Am I enough?”

“Will I ever feel like myself again?”

Trauma isn’t a photograph.

It’s a fingerprint.

Two people can live through exactly the same experience and carry away completely different marks.

No two are ever identical.

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The Problem With “At Least…”

There are two words that have probably silenced more hurting people than almost any others.

At least.

I’ve heard those words more times than I can count.

When my late husband died:

“At least he’s not suffering anymore.”

When I was finally diagnosed with an autoimmune disease after years of pain and uncertainty:

“At least now you know what’s wrong.”

Every one of those sentences was spoken with love.

Every one came from someone trying to ease my pain.

None of them were malicious.

They were said because we’re taught to find the silver lining in every situation.

To always look on the bright side of life…
(Da da… da da da da…)

Then we offer someone an “at least.”

“At least you still have your health.”
“At least you can have another baby.”
“At least you’ve still got your mum.”
“At least you’ve got a job.”

Car accident?

“Were you insured?”

“Yes.”

“Shjoe, at least hey?”

“At least…”

Those words are almost always spoken with kindness.

They’re spoken because we desperately want to make someone feel better.

We reach for the positive because silence feels uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, comfort for the speaker isn’t always comfort for the person who’s hurting.

Because what the person who’s hurting tends to hear is this:

“Your pain isn’t quite important enough.”

So people stop talking.

Not because they’re okay.

Because they’ve silently decided they haven’t earned the right not to be.

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Permission to Hurt

I don’t actually think most people compare trauma because they’re trying to be cruel.

I think they’re trying to answer a question many of us secretly ask ourselves.

“Am I allowed to hurt?”

If someone else’s story sounds bigger…

Louder…

More dramatic…

We start shrinking our own.

“I shouldn’t complain.”

“Other people have it worse.”

“I’m just being dramatic.”

“I need to toughen up.”

No.

Someone else’s broken leg doesn’t heal your broken arm.

Someone else’s grief doesn’t erase yours.

Pain isn’t a waiting room.

Healing isn’t a queue.

Pain doesn’t become legitimate because someone else agrees it’s bad enough.

You don’t have to wait until everyone suffering “more than you” has recovered before you’re allowed to ask for help.

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The Bucket

There’s an old saying.

If every person on earth threw their problems into one enormous bucket…

…and we were all told to reach in and take one back…

Most of us would quietly search until we found our own.

Not because they’re easy.

Not because they’re small.

But because we’ve spent years learning how to carry them.

The unknown often feels far heavier than the familiar.

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The People We Forget

There is another group we rarely talk about.

Not because their trauma is invisible…

But because they’ve become so good at carrying it.

The teacher who goes home thinking about the child who came to school hungry.

The nurse who still remembers the patient she couldn’t save.

The paramedic who can still hear the sirens.

The doctor who has delivered devastating news so many times they’ve forgotten what silence sounds like.

The lawyer who has listened to years of abuse while trying to remain professional.

The social worker who keeps smiling for children while privately breaking inside.

The emergency responder who has learnt exactly where to look…

…and exactly what they’ll find.

Sometimes trauma doesn’t arrive because something happened to you.

Sometimes it arrives because you’ve spent years witnessing what happened to everyone else.

Compassion has a cost.

Sometimes we pay it without ever realising.

Secondary trauma is still trauma.

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The Race Nobody Wins

Here’s the strange thing about The Trauma Derby.

Nobody crosses the finish line celebrating.

Nobody stands on a podium hoping they’ve suffered more than everyone else.

Nobody receives a trophy engraved:

“Congratulations on having the hardest life.”

Because suffering was never meant to be competitive.

It was meant to be witnessed.

Shared.

Held.

Not compared.

When pain is compared, it divides us.

When pain is shared, it connects us.

There is an immeasurable difference.

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A Final Thought

The next time someone tells you they’re struggling…

Pause.

Resist the urge to compare.

Resist the urge to minimise.

Resist the urge to search for an “at least…”

Instead…

Be curious.

Listen.

Sit with them for a while.

Because perhaps the question was never,

“Who’s had it worse?”

Perhaps it’s always been,

“What has this experience cost you?”

And perhaps the better question still is,

“How can I help you carry it?”

There was never supposed to be a winner.

There was never supposed to be a podium.

There was never supposed to be a finish line.

Because pain was never meant to be raced.

It was meant to be recognised.

So perhaps the next time someone tells you they’re struggling…

Don’t ask whether they’ve earned the right to hurt.

Simply believe them when they say “I’m hurting”.

Because there are no winners in The Trauma Derby.

Only people hoping someone will slow down…

…walk beside them for a while…

…and remind them they don’t have to carry it alone.

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