Laughing Crow’s Articles

When I look back at my teenage years in suburban Brisbane, I can see now that I had a good life. Great mates, bikes to ride, endless freedom to roam. But that’s not how I felt at the time. Back then, my world was painted in shades of comparison.

My brother was the golden child. At least in my eyes. He was the footy star. Easy-going, made friends without even trying, parents on the sidelines every weekend cheering him on. He shone, and I—well, I was the odd crow.

I wasn’t into sports. I’d rather wander through nature or sit with animals. I loved school, got the grades, but kept my thoughts tucked away because I never felt confident enough to share them. On the surface, I was fine. Inside, I carried the quiet ache of “not enough.”

And once that story takes hold, it doesn’t let go easily.

I carried it into adulthood like a curse. Job after job that I never stuck with. Relationships I walked away from. To me, every ending was another notch in the belt of failure. Another reason I was a disappointment to my family. Meanwhile, my brother was doing it all—travelling the world, nailing the career, marrying once and for life. By the family scoreboard, he was winning. And me? I was losing.

Or so I thought.

The Phone Call

Fast forward to my early forties. A random phone call with my brother changed everything. We weren’t even talking about anything serious when I finally blurted out, “I always felt like you were the favourite.”

Silence. Then laughter. A strange, half-surprised, half-broken laugh.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

And then the truth came pouring out. He told me he had always felt like the disappointment. That he wasn’t smart like me, and that insecurity gnawed at him his whole life. Footy wasn’t about glory—it was about giving himself confidence. His career? Stability. His marriage? Safety. He admitted he admired me for being able to walk away, for making heart-led choices, even when it meant standing in the unknown.

I sat there with the phone pressed to my ear, tears blurring my vision. Decades of shame and comparison began to unravel in an instant.

Two brothers, each secretly believing we were broken, each secretly jealous of the other, each completely blind to our own gifts.

The Real Medicine

Comparison is poison. It robs us of joy, of gratitude, of seeing what is right in front of us. We think we’re measuring truth, but really, we’re measuring shadows.

Eagle Eye would say: “The crow doesn’t try to be an eagle. It flies with its own wings.”

And Pieter, ever the cosmic smart-arse, would add: “So you two wasted half your lives running a race that didn’t exist. Congratulations, idiots.”

And he’d be right.

That phone call cracked me open. I saw my life differently. I wasn’t the broken odd one—I was walking the path only I could walk. Messy, brave, crooked, but true.

The golden child and the odd crow were both wrong. We weren’t competing, and there was never a scoreboard.

So if you find yourself stuck in the trap of comparison, remember this: the person you’re comparing yourself to might be looking right back at you, wishing they had your courage, your freedom, your way of seeing the world.

The joke is, we were both golden all along.

✨ If this landed for you, share it. Someone you love might be carrying the same quiet ache.

Laughing Crow

www.living5d3d.com