Recently, I took my 3.5-year-old daughter to her swimming class, along with a friend of hers who’s around the same age. As the class began, I couldn’t help but notice that her friend was completely at ease in the water—splashing around fearlessly, listening to the instructor, and picking up swimming skills quite effortlessly.

Meanwhile, my daughter was much more cautious.
She clung to the edge, reluctant to fully let go. She watched carefully before trying anything new, and every small movement in the water took real effort and a lot of reassurance from me and her coach.

At that moment, I caught myself falling into a familiar, almost automatic pattern of thinking:
“Why is her friend swimming so well already?”
“Shouldn’t my daughter be doing the same?”
“Is there something I’m missing as a parent?”

It was subtle, but real—the creeping comparison that so many of us feel, even when we don’t want to.

And then, I paused.
I thought back to my own childhood—the times when my parents, out of love and hope for me, would compare me to the neighbor’s child who always seemed a little smarter, a little faster, a little better. They didn’t mean harm, but the impact stayed.
The comparisons never made me feel motivated. They made me feel less. Like no matter what I did, it would never quite measure up.

In that moment by the pool, I realized:
I don’t want my daughter to ever feel that way.
I don’t want her milestones to feel like they’re being weighed against someone else’s journey.
I want her to feel proud of her small steps—because they are hers, and they are enough.

Every child is different.
Some leap into new experiences with fearless excitement.
Some watch, observe, and wade in slowly.
Some blossom early. Some take time.
And all of it is not just okay—it’s beautiful.

Our children are not projects to be compared. They are people, growing in their own time, in their own way.

That day, instead of focusing on how fast her friend was swimming, I looked at my daughter’s tiny triumphs:

• How she slowly let go of my hand for a second longer.
• How she dared to put her face in the water even though she was scared.
• How she smiled proudly when she kicked her feet just right.

These are her victories. They are just as important.
Maybe even more so, because they come from a place of courage unique to her.

Comparison robs us of seeing the beauty in what is.
It blinds us to the individual magic each child carries within them.

Today, I choose to celebrate my daughter’s slow, steady bravery.
Tomorrow, it might be a new milestone—or not.
But it will be hers, and that will always be enough.