I once had a client who came to me for mentorship. She was divorced, her only child had died, and she felt grief-stricken, profoundly alone, and barely able to function. It took every ounce of strength just to tell her story. After the second time we spoke, I remember her words clear as day. With a defeated sigh, she said, “So many people have it so much worse.”

In an instant, all the pain she had so vulnerably shared seemed to vanish — erased by that single comment.

That moment stayed with me. And since then, I’ve heard the same phrase on the lips of countless others:

“Other people have it so much worse.”

Why We Say It

When people say this, they are usually trying to protect themselves. By comparing their suffering to someone else’s, they minimize their own pain. It feels safer to dismiss than to sit in the full depth of grief.

For my client, it was as though she allowed herself a moment to acknowledge the pain, but then a part rushed in, regretting the vulnerability, telling her, “You don’t deserve to feel this bad. Others suffer more.” What she didn’t realize was that, in saying this, she was invalidating her own story — almost rejecting her right to be cared for.

And often, the word “but” makes this even sharper:

• “I’m hurting, but other people have it worse.”
• “I’m grieving, but other people have it worse.”

The “but” works like an eraser. Psychologically, it cancels whatever came before it. Instead of holding both truths — “I am hurting, and others are too” — the “but” pushes the first truth aside. What could have been empathy or perspective becomes self-negation.

Here’s the deeper truth: our suffering matters. It matters so much that when we dare to voice it aloud, a part of us sometimes panics. Afraid of ridicule, criticism, or invalidation, it tries to stuff the pain back down. That part rushes in with the opposite message — “but other people have it worse” — hoping to protect us from greater harm. Often, this instinct is born from past experiences of being dismissed or shamed.

The Catholic “Both/And”

Catholic teaching has long emphasized the principle of “both/and.” Truth is rarely found in stark either/or opposites. We are called to hold realities together that seem to be in tension. Jesus is both fully God and fully man. Mary is both Virgin and Mother. The Cross is both tragedy and triumph.

Applied here: yes, it is true that others may have it worse. And it is also true that my pain is real and worthy of care.

To pit these realities against one another creates a false opposition. The “both/and” principle invites us to live in a wider horizon: we can cultivate compassion for others who suffer and attend honestly to our own wounds. To deny one for the sake of the other is not virtue — it is avoidance.

Objective Truth and Subjective Experience

John Paul II often distinguished between objective truth and subjective experience.

• Objective truth: Some situations are measurably more severe than others. A famine is objectively worse than running out of groceries. The murder of a child is objectively more tragic than a broken bone.
• Subjective truth: Yet each person’s lived experience of suffering is uniquely their own. Pain is felt in the depths of the heart, in the body, in the imagination. No one else can step inside that space and measure it.

This is why, from a Catholic personalist perspective, we cannot subjectively compare suffering. To tell someone, “You shouldn’t feel so bad, because someone else has it worse,” misunderstands the dignity of the person. My pain is not erased by someone else’s. My wounds are not made less real by someone else’s deeper wounds.

As John Paul II emphasized in Salvifici Doloris, suffering is always personal. It cannot be abstracted or ranked in a hierarchy that diminishes the individual. To suffer is to enter into the mystery of one’s own relationship with God, who meets each of us exactly where we are.

Comparison as a God-Given Good

Comparison itself is not the enemy. In fact, God designed it into us. From the very beginning, we thrive on observational learning:

• A baby sees a sibling clap and soon tries it too.
• A student notices how a classmate solves a math problem and borrows the strategy.
• An apprentice watches a master at work and grows in skill through imitation.

This instinctive form of comparison is about growth, not shame. It’s how we learn language, skills, and even virtues.

Spiritually, comparison can inspire us. St. Paul encourages, “Be imitators of me, as I am of Christ” (1 Cor 11:1). When rightly ordered, noticing goodness in others stirs us to pursue holiness ourselves.

For my client, comparison could have been a reminder that she was not alone in her suffering, and that others’ resilience might spark hope. But instead, it became a weight — dragging her deeper into despair.

The Danger of Distorted Comparison

Comparison becomes harmful when it shifts from learning to measuring worth.

• Minimization of pain: Like my client, we may conclude, “I shouldn’t hurt this much because others have it worse.”
• Erosion of self-esteem: Instead of being inspired, we feel “less than.” Our suffering feels invalid or unworthy of attention.
• Envy and resentment: We begin to resent others’ gifts or blessings, rather than being uplifted by them.

Jesus addressed this dynamic in the parable of the vineyard workers (Matt 20). The first workers received what was promised, yet grew bitter when others were given the same. Their grumbling didn’t come from injustice but from comparison — measuring their worth against someone else’s portion.

In the same way, my client’s suffering was real and devastating, but her instinct to measure it against others’ struggles only deepened her loneliness.

Holding Comparison in Its Place

Comparison is meant to be a teacher, not a judge.

• At its best: it helps us grow, imitate virtue, and gain perspective.
• At its worst: it diminishes our dignity, silences our pain, and blinds us to God’s compassion.

The truth is: God never compares our wounds to someone else’s. He doesn’t say, “You don’t deserve comfort because another has suffered more.” He meets each of us exactly where we are, with compassion that is total, not comparative.

For my client, healing began when she slowly allowed herself to believe this truth — that her suffering mattered, simply because she mattered.

Final Word

“Other people have it worse” is a phrase meant to protect, but it often harms instead. Adding the “but” turns it into self-negation, erasing vulnerability and shutting down compassion toward ourselves.

The Catholic “both/and” helps us here: yes, others may have it worse. And yes, my pain is real and deserves care.

Comparison is good when it points us toward virtue, models of resilience, and opportunities to learn. It is dangerous when it erodes self-worth and blinds us to the truth that our pain matters to God.

So the next time those words rise up in your heart, pause. Let comparison be a guide toward growth, not a verdict against your worth. Because in God’s eyes, your suffering is never “less than.” It is seen. It is held. And it matters.