The worst part of success is to try finding someone who is happy

“The worst part of success is to try finding someone who is happy for you.” Thus spoke Bette Midler, a woman who rose to fame through song and stage, and who learned firsthand that the higher one climbs, the lonelier the air becomes. Her words cut through the glitter of applause to reveal a truth few dare to name: that success, though sought by many, often brings with it not only joy, but envy, suspicion, and hidden sorrow. To achieve is to awaken not only admiration, but jealousy in others; and to celebrate triumph while searching in vain for genuine rejoicing in another’s heart is a bitter trial indeed.

The origin of this wisdom lies in the eternal nature of the human heart. Since the earliest days, men and women have struggled to rejoice in the good fortune of others. Even in sacred texts, we see Cain consumed by envy at Abel’s favor, and Joseph’s brothers despising the dreams that foretold his rise. These stories remind us that success often isolates, for while failure is met with sympathy, triumph is met with rivalry. Bette Midler, with her sharp clarity, names this ancient wound: that the greatest sorrow of achievement is not the burden of labor, but the scarcity of true friends who delight in your rise.

History offers many examples of this truth. Consider the life of Julius Caesar, who returned from conquest crowned with victory. To the people, he was a hero; to his peers in the Senate, he was a threat. Their envy turned to conspiracy, and their conspiracy to murder. His success had brought him power, but it had also robbed him of trust. The daggers that struck him were sharpened not by his failures, but by his victories. Such is the danger Midler warns of: success attracts not only light, but shadow.

Or think of Marie Curie, whose groundbreaking discoveries brought her acclaim and two Nobel Prizes. Yet in the midst of her success, she faced suspicion, isolation, and hostility from colleagues—many of whom could not bear that a woman had surpassed them. She bore her triumphs almost alone, finding few who could rejoice without bitterness. Her story reveals the same wound: that when success arrives, the heart often longs more for companionship than for crowns, and too often finds the former absent.

Bette Midler’s words also remind us of a deeper longing: the longing for authentic joy shared. Success, after all, is sweetest when celebrated with others, when one’s victories become the victories of friends and family. But when those around us are silent, cold, or resentful, then the triumph turns hollow. The laughter of the crowd cannot replace the quiet gladness of a friend whose heart is truly for you. The absence of such joy reveals to us the poverty of envy and the rarity of love untainted by rivalry.

The lesson for us is clear: seek to be the one who rejoices in another’s success. Do not let envy steal the purity of your heart. For if you can celebrate another’s triumph with gladness, you yourself are rich, even in your own times of want. And when your own moment of success comes, you will have built friendships strong enough to rejoice with you in truth. Generosity of spirit is the rarest gift, and yet it costs nothing but humility.

Therefore, let each person act with intention. When a friend rises, rejoice, even if you are still waiting for your own moment. Speak blessing, not bitterness. Offer encouragement, not suspicion. For in celebrating the light of others, you make your own light shine brighter. And in so doing, you create a circle of trust that envy cannot break, and a fellowship of joy that no achievement can sour.

So let Bette Midler’s words endure: “The worst part of success is to try finding someone who is happy for you.” Take them as both warning and command. Do not be the one whose heart grows narrow at the rise of another, but the one whose spirit expands in joy. For true greatness is not only in winning, but in rejoicing when others win. In this, the heart finds a success greater than fame: the success of love unbroken by envy.