“Is It Really Love If We’re Always Competing?” – Competitive Friendships Among South Asian Women
Introduction:
Laiba and Alishka had been best friends since childhood, growing up side by side through thick and thin. Their bond was unshakeable, formed on trust, laughter, and unconditional support. But as they grew older, their families began to compare them—who was more successful, who was better at academics, who had the better social circle. Slowly, this comparison began to undermine the strength of their friendship. But Laiba wasn’t about to let that happen. She decided it was time to stand up, not only for herself but for her friendship with Alishka, and remind her parents of something vital: Allah SWT didn’t create our lives to be a competition.
Laiba’s POV:
The weight of the expectations felt suffocating. I had always cherished my friendship with Alishka. We’d been inseparable for years, sharing secrets, laughter, and moments of true understanding. But lately, things had begun to change. Our parents—well-meaning but misguided—had started comparing us, almost pitting us against one another.
“Look at Laiba, she’s a Quran Hafiz. You should be more like her, Alishka.”
“Alishka, you need to focus more on your grades, like Laiba.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. I had always been proud of my journey in memorizing the Quran, a commitment that was close to my heart. But the constant comparison, as if being a Quran Hafiz was a measuring stick for everything else, started to wear me down. Alishka didn’t deserve to feel inferior because she wasn’t on the same path. She had her own strengths, her own incredible talents, but it felt like my achievement was being held over her head as if it were the one thing that defined me.
“Why can’t I just be Laiba? Why can’t I be perfect like her?”
I heard Alishka whisper these words one day when we were alone. She didn’t mean to hurt me, but it stung. She was always being compared to me, to the point where I could see the light in her dimming just a little each time. She was amazing in her own way, and I hated seeing her struggle to be something she wasn’t.
It hurt to see the tension between us grow, to feel the unspoken jealousy simmer beneath the surface, all because of comparisons we never asked for.
I knew I had to say something, not just for myself, but for us. I had to make our families understand that our friendship wasn’t a competition. We didn’t need to be compared for us to shine. We were already shining in our own unique ways.
That evening, after a long day of tense conversation with my parents about my Quran Hafiz achievement and Alishka’s grades, I finally spoke up. I turned to them, my heart pounding, but my words clear.
“Allah SWT didn’t create our lives to be a competition,” I said, my voice steady. “You’ve taught me so many valuable lessons, but this? This is not the way. Alishka is my best friend. I support her, and she supports me. We do not need to be compared to each other. Life isn’t about who wins or who’s better. It’s about growing together, helping each other rise, and most importantly—being there for one another, no matter what.”
My mother looked at me, a little shocked at my boldness, but then her expression softened. My father, ever the one to look at everything logically, seemed to be processing my words. Slowly, the tension in the room started to dissipate.
“It’s true,” my mother finally said. “We should never have compared you two. We just wanted the best for both of you.”
I nodded, a weight lifting off my chest. “I know you do. But you’ve always taught me that love and success come from within, not from comparisons. And Alishka and I—our success is about us lifting each other up, not about who does it better.”
Alishka’s POV:
The words Laiba spoke to our parents meant more to me than anything else. For so long, I felt as if I was drowning in the pressure to outperform her, to be better at everything—academics, appearance, even social life. It was suffocating, and I could see the toll it was taking on our friendship.
Laiba was a Quran Hafiz, something that required a deep commitment and dedication. I admired her for it, but the comparisons often left me feeling like I could never measure up, like no matter what I did, I would never be good enough. I had my own strengths, my own path, but it seemed like that wasn’t enough for everyone around us. I would hear the whispers, see the glances, and feel the weight of always being compared to Laiba’s achievements.
But Laiba had always been the stronger one between us. She had a way of speaking up for herself and for the people she loved. When she stood up for me, for our friendship, I felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders.
I had never wanted to compete with Laiba, but it was impossible when everyone around us kept putting us in direct comparison. She had always been the person I admired—the way she handled challenges with grace, how she never let the opinions of others dictate who she was. And now, I saw that in her words, too. It made me realize that I didn’t need to prove anything to anyone—especially not to our families.
Conclusion:
In that moment, I felt like a burden had been lifted from my heart. Laiba had not only fought for herself but for our friendship. She had reminded us all of something we had forgotten—that life wasn’t about competing with one another. It was about walking alongside each other, lifting each other up, and supporting one another through the highs and lows.
Our parents, seeing the strength of our words and our bond, finally understood. They apologized for putting that pressure on us and promised to support us as individuals, not as competitors.
And as for Alishka and me? Our friendship grew even stronger. We knew that Allah SWT had given us this beautiful relationship, not to compete, but to nurture. And that’s what we were going to do—grow together, always.