Danielle Nelson is a practicing therapist and Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) who focuses on sexual health and wellness, trauma and recovery, self-esteem and resilience building, and general mental health concerns. Though Danielle is a trained professional, this column is not a substitute for advice or care provided by your licensed medical or health care professional.
Of the many absurdities that accompany daily life in New Orleans, the coexistence of revelry and existential dread has become my favorite—but it took a while. In my 20s, I was suspect of the revelry part. I remember driving to work, seeing a costumed birthday bar crawl underway… at 8 a.m. At the time, all the festivity seemed related to the endless infrastructural and institutional failures the city faced. How was anything going to get done if we kept making everything a party?
It took moving away for graduate school for it to click. I found myself writing papers about the aforementioned infrastructure and institutional failures of New Orleans. The distance was good—I saw things I’d missed. I became the person who always noted how things were done “back home.” I surprised myself. I really missed the revelry I once suspected.
New Orleans has a special talent for breaking a Type A personality. And as someone with a tendency toward toxic perfectionism, I missed the way New Orleans forced me to slow down, change plans, and expect the completely unexpected. The city’s duality of struggle and celebration became reframed for me—what an ingenious cultural coping mechanism. A recent (personal) example: dancing at a second line while comparing dismal insurance rates.
It’s hard to hold two things at once—especially when they feel contradictory. Zooming out, everything feels chaotic and like it’s unravelling—politically, economically, climatically—and yet when we zoom back in, we’re still grappling with the same things: Am I behind? Am I doing this right? What do I actually want? While hesitant, this month’s inquiry does a great job spelling it out.
No offense, but I feel a little dumb writing to an advice column. Most people I know would say if you’re spiraling you talk it out with a friend, don’t email a therapist you don’t know. But here we are. I’m in my early 30s and surrounded by people who talk about not caring about money or status and just doing meaningful work. Which I thought I believed. But lately when someone lands something big, like a gallery show or a job that sounds impressive, I feel this flash of jealousy. I like these people. I’m happy for them. And still I feel weirdly behind, like everyone else figured out adulthood while I’m still pretending the rules don’t apply to me. Is this just normal envy, or am I realizing too late that I actually do care about the things we all pretend not to?
I’m not offended. I take your trepidation with great affection. I write this advice column because it allows people to talk publicly about what they worry about privately. So your question, as awkward as it may have felt to submit, is valuable because other people will read along thinking, “Thank god it’s not just me.” Therapy works similarly—with a much smaller audience and way more confidentiality. The value is not in having someone swoop in with the right answer, but in having another human slow down long enough to take your question seriously.
What you’re describing is totally normal. As I mentioned earlier, two things can be true, and seemingly at odds, without cancelling each other out. You can love your friends, want them to succeed, and simultaneously wonder why their success makes you feel envious.
This particular flavor of envy is pretty common in scenes rooted in the rejection of commercial success. When a group collectively agrees that money, prestige, and fame/recognition are meaningless, it doesn’t make those things disappear. It just makes them more embarrassing to desire. So when someone gets them anyway, it might feel like they aced the test you all agreed not to study for.
None of this makes you shallow or petty. It makes you observant.
What I find most interesting about your inquiry isn’t the envy, it’s the anxiety—the sense that everyone else secretly grew up while you’re still performing the role of someone who doesn’t care about the game. At some point, many of us discover that the identities we built in our 20s were partly philosophical and partly practical. Let’s face it: It’s easier to reject status if none of your friends have any.
So, I’ll get to the real question: What do you want? Not what your scene believes the definition of success to be. Not what your friends are achieving. Just you alone. What do you actually want?
Maybe the answer remains the same. Maybe you want meaningful work and a life that isn’t organized around prestige. Great. But when we break it down, envy is just information. It’s often a signal pointing toward a desire we’d rather pretend we don’t have.
So, what to do with it? Well, the first step is to let go of the shame around the feeling. Instead, get curious about it. Try to explore the feeling without judgement. I often tell clients who are prepping for a deep dive into sensitive feelings to go into journalist mode: Try to stay objective and avoid labeling things too quickly. Nothing is good or bad, wrong or right. It’s all just interesting evidence and information. Be gentle with yourself and try to explore what’s under the surface.
When someone announces their big show or new job, ask yourself what stings. Is it the recognition? The financial stability? Envy is rarely about the other person—it’s usually a flashlight pointed at the parts of your own life that might feel stalled, unseen, or uncertain.
For what it’s worth, feeling “behind” in your 30s is a cultural rite of passage. I can assure you that many of the people you’re envying grapple with the same fear that someone else has all the right answers.
You’re a lovely and adaptable human being realizing the story you told yourself about success might be more complicated than the one your friend group agreed to. Which is the beginning of figuring out what you actually want.
If you need to speak to someone right away, call 504-269-COPE (2673). The COPE crisis line provides free, confidential crisis counseling, suicide prevention and information, and mental health referral services 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
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illustrations by Romey Petite
