It started with Mia’s painting.
Mia’s painting was beautiful. All swirling colours and perfect shapes.
Scarlett looked at her own painting — the wonky house, the lopsided sun — and felt something small and heavy settle in her chest.
Mine’s not as good, she thought.
Then at lunch, she noticed how quickly Theo finished his reading.
And how easily Priya did her sums.
And how everyone seemed to know the answer to the question except Scarlett.
By the time school ended, Scarlett felt completely flat.
Like someone had let all the air out of her.
She sat beside Lenny that evening and didn’t say anything for a long time.
“I’m not very good at things,” she said finally.
Lenny waited.
“Mia paints better than me. Theo reads faster. Priya is better at maths.”
“Probably true,” said Lenny.
Scarlett blinked. She hadn’t expected that.
“But,” said Lenny, “is Mia better at being Scarlett than you are?”
Scarlett frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“You are the only person in the world who is exactly you,” said Lenny. “Your particular way of seeing things. Your particular kind of kind. Your particular laugh. Your particular way of noticing the small things other people miss.”
Scarlett was quiet.
“The comparing game has no end,” said Lenny gently. “There will always be someone who does one thing better. But no one — not one person — can do you better than you.”
Scarlett thought about that for a long time.
She looked at her painting again that night.
The wonky house. The lopsided sun.
It looked exactly like the house in her imagination.
And there was nobody else’s imagination quite like hers.
Enough, she thought.
I am enough.
🫶 Dream big dreams.