The Gift of Being “Extra”

Jealousy is a corrosive force. It compels you to measure your intrinsic value against other people’s achievements. We know, intellectually, that G-d made each of us unique. My face, my voice, and my thoughts are not identical to anyone else’s. I stand out; no one is exactly like me.

But there is a flipside to that uniqueness. Because I am unlike anyone else, I am also woefully inept at replicating what others do. I cannot explain things exactly like my neighbour. I cannot write with someone else’s precision. I cannot build exactly what others build. I can only be me.

As long as I accept that reality, I am content. I can’t be them, and they can’t be me; we each stay in our respective lanes. But jealousy upends this equilibrium. I look at what someone else has, and I want precisely that. Suddenly, nothing else is good enough. I feel I must either achieve their specific success or give up entirely.

When someone else builds a business and finds a niche I couldn’t, I feel like a failure. I feel superfluous. I ask myself: What does the world need me for when it already has him? If someone possesses more talent, a larger social media presence, or more panache than I do, I feel like an extra—a useless third wheel at the party of life.

The Talmud observes that G-d is a marvellous designer. A human designer creates a single mold to produce multiple identical copies. G-d, however, uses a single mold (Adam), yet every “copy” is uniquely different. We share a basic human structure, yet no two faces are the same. We are printed from the same mold, yet no two of us are perfectly alike.

This uniqueness is what makes us natural collaborators rather than competitors. We are meant to complement one another. The tragedy of jealousy is that I see in others a spark I cannot replicate, yet I fail to see that they look at me and see the same. They appreciate my contribution, while I am busy turning green over theirs.

Why is it so hard to see this? Jealousy is insidious; it blinds us to our own strengths because we are too busy coveting the strengths of others. When we can’t replicate their success, we feel useless. We wonder why G-d brought us into the world if we cannot be the “best” at someone else’s game.

Owning Our Limitations

The solution is to own our limitations. We must stop trying to be like others and acknowledge that we simply cannot be them. Where they shine, I will not. In their specific arena, I am “useless”—and that is okay. It isn’t even worth trying to compete there.

Once I embrace my limitations, I can finally live within them. Once I stop trying to swerve into someone else’s lane, I can settle into my own and find comfort. Instead of failing in a role I wasn’t meant for, I can succeed in the one I was.

When I succeed in my own lane, I contribute the one unique thing that only I can offer. Ironically, the only way to truly earn the world’s admiration is to stop chasing it through imitation. We must leave the field to those who were born for it and stop trying to invade their space. The moment I stop vying for their limelight, I find my own.

In the blinding world of the ego, it feels as though leaving the limelight to others leaves us in the dark. But the opposite is true: once we step out of that crowded circle of competition, the roadblocks are removed. Our natural path leads us to our own unique shaft of light.

When Jethro “Owned It”

Jethro (Yisro) was a man with a checkered past. He was an advisor to Pharaoh in Egypt, a man of prominence and power. But after running afoul of the king, he was forced to flee in ignominy. He eventually gained fame as a pagan priest, becoming the world’s acknowledged authority on all forms of idol worship. He was revered, yet he felt empty.

Deep down, Jethro knew the truth. The crowds’ adoration was hollow because he found no meaning in his work. He realized they didn’t admire him; they admired his title. He could find no value in a priesthood that paled in comparison to the one true faith of the Israelites.

When he eventually retired from his position, he was reviled. He felt superfluous. He wanted to be a source of truth, but he felt he couldn’t. He knew that role belonged to his son-in-law, Moses. Because he couldn’t be the “original” oracle of G-d, he felt useless.

The Torah records seven different names for this man. One of them is Yeter, which means “extra” or “superfluous.” He felt like “extra baggage”. He couldn’t embrace his destiny because he was burning with jealousy over Moses’s role.

However, after G-d took the Jews out of Egypt, Jethro went to the desert to meet Moses. This wasn’t a standard family visit; it was a moment of profound clarity. He finally acknowledged that his previous attempts to achieve fame through paganism were unmitigated disasters. He stopped trying to be Moses, and in doing so, he stopped being miserable.

This is when the Torah calls him Yitro. In a homiletic sense, Yitro can be read as Yeter Shelo—”his superfluousness.” He took ownership of being “extra.” He admitted he couldn’t do what Moses did. By owning his limitations, he transformed “extra” into “excellence.”

Finding True Fame

What happened once Jethro stopped trying to be someone else? He was finally free to be himself. He entered his own lane and excelled. Jethro’s unique niche was to be the world’s first great proselyte—the first person to recognize the truth from the outside and join the Jewish people.

As a royal advisor or a pagan priest, Jethro would have been a footnote in history. As a convert, his name is engraved in the Torah for eternity. He paved the way for every future convert. He even had an entire portion of the Torah named after him.

Jethro never became Moses. Had he kept trying, he would have remained “superfluous,” relegated to the waste bin of history. But because he embraced being Jethro, he became the man whose advice even G-d endorsed.

His advice to Pharaoh was rejected; his advice to Moses was immortalized. What changed? He embraced his true, humble self.[1] When we try to be someone else, we are an empty shell. When we embrace our own lane, our true self comes to life. As the great Hillel once said: “When ‘I’ am present, everything is present” (Talmud, Sukkos 53a).

[1] This essay is loosely based on a teaching by Chidushei Harim on Exodus 18:1.