The Strange, Silent Storm I Faced Alone
Sometimes, we fight battles so private, so intricately woven into the fabric of who we are, that even we don’t fully see them coming until they unravel us. For me, that battle was jealousy—yes, the green-eyed monster itself. Except this wasn’t the dramatic, throw-drinks-and-storm-out kind of envy you’d see in a Netflix rom-com. Mine was quieter, subtler, and far more insidious. It simmered just below the surface, feeding on the deeply personal insecurities I kept buried.
Let me start at the beginning—or at least at the chic Parisian café where it all bubbled to the surface one Sunday afternoon.
A Latte and My Low-Key Meltdown
We’d only just started dating. I’ll call him Julien, the quintessential Parisian intellectual prototype straight out of a Godard film—thoughtful, witty, the kind of guy who could write sonnets about baguettes and you'd be charmed. We were sipping overpriced lattes, basking in that easy early-dating glow, when I, in my infinite wisdom, decided scrolling through Instagram mid-conversation was a good idea.
Of course, that’s when it happened.
An innocuous heart emoji fluttered to life on his screen. The “like” went to another woman’s photo—one of those impossibly chic types who can make standing in front of a crumbling alley look like a fashion campaign. She had artfully disheveled hair, a trench coat I assumed cost more than my rent, and a pout that could almost make Brigitte Bardot jealous.
My gut reaction wasn’t pretty. Was she someone he only admired from afar, like a celebrity muse? A colleague? An ex? My brain spun labyrinthine scenarios. I nodded and smiled at whatever cordial thing Julien had just said about Sartre, but inwardly, I was spiraling faster than a carousel in Montmartre.
What made it worse (or better?) is that Julien wasn’t doing anything wrong. Liking a picture on Instagram hardly constituted treason, and he wasn’t exactly trading love letters through carrier pigeon behind my back. But that didn’t matter. I waited for him to head to the bathroom and did what any highly rational adult woman would do—I stalked her profile.
I won’t detail the specific downward spiral except to say, at one point, I caught myself zooming into her photo with the Louvre pyramid to see the texture of her skin. Was she…flawless? Yes, she appeared flawless. Mon dieu.
The Real Enemy in the Mirror
Here’s the thing: That moment wasn’t really about Julien or Trench Coat Brigitte (as I later nicknamed her in my private pity party). The truth is, she wasn’t my rival—my own insecurity and self-comparison were.
Managing bicultural identity made me sensitive to where I “fit” from a young age. As a child in Paris, I secretly envied the French girls in my school who seemed so effortlessly chic, while I alternated between clunky Egyptian mary-janes and outfits my mother deemed practical. Later, I envied those who moved more fluidly between cultures, lovers, and languages. Fast-forward to London, where I constantly felt I existed somewhere between worlds, always juggling dualities.
Somewhere along the way, a small part of me started judging myself harshly—and by extension, others. If I wasn’t “enough” (whatever that elusive enough meant), then surely someone else was too much—too perfect, too intimidating. I wasn’t just comparing; I was shrinking myself in the process. That quiet jealousy was years in the making, rooted in every unspoken moment when I thought, “I wish I was her.”
The Hard Look at Hard Feelings
For most of us, jealousy is a knee-jerk reaction we’d rather not acknowledge—it’s raw, uncomfortable, and frankly, a little unflattering. But here’s what I learned that day, as I slowly reshelved my phone and listened to Julien banter about existentialism: Jealousy, when unpacked honestly, can be one of our greatest teachers.
What triggered my feelings wasn’t Trench Coat Brigitte’s perfect pout. It was my own doubt about my worth. This wasn’t about her life or Julien’s “like.” It was about the story I was telling myself—that I wasn’t enough, that I didn’t measure up.
Naming that truth wasn’t fun. In fact, it was like dragging yourself out of bed on a rainy day for a run you don’t want to do. But it was necessary. Over time, here’s how I started detangling the threads of my jealousy:
Steps to Tame Your Inner Green Monster
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Pause Before You Spiral
Knee-jerk reactions usually come from a story you’ve told yourself. Ask: “What am I feeling? Why am I reacting this way?” Take a deep breath. Step back and show yourself compassion before rushing to conclusions. -
Name It Without Shame
Think of jealousy like an unexpected guest at a party. You don’t need to hand it champagne, but acknowledge it’s there. “Hey, jealousy, I see you.” This sounds silly, but naming the feeling out loud or in a journal defangs it, stripping it of its unchecked power. -
Focus on What’s True
Jealousy thrives on assumptions. In my case, the assumption wasn’t “Julien likes Brigitte”; it was, “She’s everything I’m not.” This isn’t real—it’s a projection. Ask: “What about this is true? What fear is speaking here?” -
Flip the Script with Gratitude
Instead of envying qualities in someone else, let it inspire you. Someone’s allure or achievements don’t diminish your own. Shift that energy, and think about what you genuinely admire in yourself. -
Have the Hard but Healthy Conversations
If what you’ve unpacked involves your partner, like mine did with Julien, talk about it sans drama. I shared my vulnerability—not in an accusatory, “Why did you like her post?” way but with a laugh as I said, “Hey, I realized I felt a twinge of jealousy today, and I think it’s my own thing to work on.” He appreciated my honesty. Often, what we fear to voice actually deepens intimacy.
What Jealousy Really Taught Me
Overcoming this wasn’t some cinematic, single-moment triumph. Jealousy isn’t a dragon you slay overnight—it’s more like a houseplant you accidentally neglect, then water too much. It needs balance, patience, and some solid self-awareness.
Today, I still catch myself scrolling social media and wondering what it would be like to be that person. Trench Coat Brigitte remains an icon I both admire and feel mildly suspicious of (she just looks too perfect, okay?). But the difference now is this: I know my worth isn’t tied up in comparison, but in who I am. It’s tied up in what I bring to the table, in my quirks, my stories, my very real imperfections.
If jealousy feels like a private battle you’ve been quietly fighting too, I promise you—you’re not alone. We’ve all felt outshone, outmatched, or out of our depths. But you, with all your messy, beautiful layers, belong as you are.
And hey, if Trench Coat Brigitte can look that flawless in front of a crumbling alley, imagine how much shine you bring to the world—even on your messy days.