I was also surrounded by writers who seemed to have already achieved a level of success I could only fantasize about. They had killer bylines, once-in-a-lifetime interviews, and what seemed like countless retweets. And with each success they shared, my sense of failure grew. I assumed they knew something I didn’t, or worse, that I was failing in an industry I was still trying to navigate. So, desperate to seize control of my own career, I went on the defensive. I’d pepper my congratulations with side-eye or insincerity, or tried to one-up their news with my own. I wrote for the purpose of besting my pals, and I'd low-key revel whenever I got a new byline in a publication that hadn’t accepted their pitches. Worse yet, I’d simply cut them off when it seemed like they were doing better than I was. To me, their success wasn’t just an indicator that they were better writers, but a personal attack on my capabilities. Because if they were successful, I assumed it meant I could never be. As far as I was concerned, only a small number of people could “make it.” It was me or them. And if it wasn’t me, I didn’t want to be friends with them.