There are moments when we cross paths with someone who seems effortlessly radiant. She carries beauty, confidence, or success in a way that makes it look natural. And instead of feeling inspired, something twists inside. A heaviness. A knot in the stomach.
I bet you have been that woman. I bet you have been the other woman too. The one who shines without meaning to. The one who stirs something raw in someone else.
It is easy to feel ashamed of these reactions. To tell ourselves we should be happy for her. To hide the envy or resentment that rises. Yet these uncomfortable feelings are not proof of our inadequacy. They are signposts pointing inward.
And they are not just personal. They are political. Patriarchy has, for centuries, taught women to measure their worth against one another. It has told us our value lies in our appearance, our desirability, our ability to achieve without threatening the status quo. It has set us up as rivals in a contest we never chose, competing for scraps of approval and belonging. The system benefits when women distrust each other. When we envy rather than support. When we see another’s light as proof of our own lack, rather than a reflection of what is possible. Naming this matters, because it lifts the shame. It reminds us that the reflex to compare is not a flaw in our character, but the legacy of a culture built on competition and scarcity.
I work with this dynamic often in my therapy room. Again and again, I witness how painful it feels to turn comparison inward, and how liberating it becomes when we begin to see envy as a guide toward our own unlived life.
Often what unsettles us in another mirrors something within ourselves that longs for expression:
Her joy stirs our longing for joy.
Her ease stirs the parts of us that feel burdened.
Her success touches the place inside that wonders if we are enough.
Within us lives a younger part who once longed to be celebrated, chosen, or seen. When she notices another woman shining, her ache awakens. Instead of pushing her aside or drowning her out, we can pause and listen.
What does she most need from us in that moment?
Perhaps reassurance. Perhaps permission. Perhaps simply our kind attention.
In this way, the knot in the stomach becomes a compass. It does not point us toward rivalry but toward our own unlived life. The qualities we admire in another are also seeds within us. They wait for light and water.
So the next time you feel that sharp discomfort, you might try this: pause.
Place a hand gently on your heart or belly. Ask softly, What is this feeling showing me about the life that wants to grow in me?
In my clinical work, I see how transformative it can be when women reclaim these feelings as invitations rather than weapons against self-worth. In turning toward ourselves with compassion, another woman’s light no longer diminishes us. It becomes an invitation to kindle our own, and in doing so to step out of the old story that women must compete and into the possibility of rising together. And fly freely!
With love,
Aleksandra
Aleksandra Staneva, PhD - Internal Family Systems & Jung 