“Comparison is the thief of joy.” The famous quote by Teddy Roosevelt – and now the title of this post – just hit me with an incredible irony.
I identify a word or phrase for each new year. Last year my phrase was “protecting my peace as fiercely as I protect my babies.” This year, I went with one word… JOY.
I’m going to be exceptionally vulnerable for a moment. Sharing the deepest, darkest parts of our journey isn’t necessarily easy, but it’s important. Because I know how alone I have felt along the way and I hate the idea that others may feel the same way.
This morning I was up early with Max and happy to start the new year that way. We played and snuggled a bit with the coziest blanket and I took the time to do some reflective writing, a short meditation and laced up my shoes for a healthy walk with our dog before Mike had to leave for a day-long football obligation. I was feeling really good, ready to take on the highs and lows of a new year, basking in the notion that with a new year comes a fresh start. And we’re all ready for that.
Tonight, just 12 hours later, my anxiety was rearing its ugly head, challenging me to work really hard to get back to a place that even remotely resembled balance. It’s amazing how quickly a switch can be flipped. Scary, really.
Let me fill you in.
A dear friend invited me to her house to watch a football game. Her parents were coming into town and I was excited to see them, so I went for a bit, leaving Fletcher and Max with my parents. A few other friends were there and I was grateful for the time to catch up. In the group were a few people I didn’t know and several children – around the ages of my boys.
We live a pretty insulated life and sometimes I forget that. The pandemic paired with the needs of Max have really led us to center our lives at home, or at least surrounded by people he is comfortable with. I was never a homebody before 2020, but have really come to appreciate all that being home has to offer. Most days, there’s no place I’d rather be. It’s our safe space, our sensory haven, and our reset button.
We spend a fair amount of time with other people, specifically family and close friends, but I’m not frequently around other kids in social situations where my kids aren’t present. That hits differently. And I’ll be honest, I wasn’t prepared for the feelings it would drum up.
The kids at this very casual gathering were quiet, mild-mannered and independent. If you weren’t in the same room, you wouldn’t have known they were there. That alone is incredibly foreign to me. They calmly played and read as their parents chatted and watched the game. None of this was good or bad, it was just so completely different from what I’m used to. It hadn’t even occurred to me to bring my boys, mostly because I knew this wasn’t a situation that would set either of them up for success.
The littles around Max’s age were carrying on conversations, making their needs known with ease. No communication devices, no visual schedules, no barriers, no frustrations. It flowed for them in a way Max has never experienced. The stark contrast between our realities hit me like a ton of bricks.
Let me be clear. I don’t wish our reality was different. My kids are my greatest teachers. They have given us such a rich existence and it’s an absolute honor to be their mom. But sometimes, experiences like this make me wish that their lives weren’t quite so hard. I can rationalize that hard is relative and often get hung up on that, too. Our hard is nothing compared to what many families are navigating, but I’ve realized over time that it’s important to name it and honor it as being difficult and give ourselves permission to process it as such.
Circling back to the small gathering, I was happy to connect with some of my dearest friends, but I left feeling itchy inside. Uncomfortable, squirmy. Not because of anything anyone did…or didn’t do for that matter. But because of the reminder that our life requires a kind of tenacity on the part of all four of us that you only know when you’re living it.
I know better than to compare. Our kids are pure magic… ALL kids are magic. In their own, unique ways. I usually try to focus on the positives and was honestly surprised by how this very casual get together threw me into a total tailspin. Now I’m wondering if it was because I didn’t know other kids would be there. Do I usually mentally prepare myself for something like this without realizing it? Am I just tired and lost perspective for a bit? Am I carrying a weight I didn’t realize and this just felt too heavy to bear? I may never know. And it doesn’t matter. What matters is what I do with these feelings.
When I picked the boys up and we were leaving my parents house, Max said “go go bye bye” all together… a rare occasion where multiple words were used in sequence. I was so excited – but that excitement is something only Mike can ever truly know like I do. At that moment, I was itchy from the unexpected harsh reminder of an ease of things we don’t have…and then elated by a sentence spoken by our sweet boy…a ray of light… and something we DO have. My head was spinning.
I was deep in thought on the drive back to our safe place. My thoughts spiraled. I went from being overwhelmed with the challenges our kids navigate that many of their peers don’t, to being fiercely grateful these boys are ours, to relishing in Max’s spoken sentence… and I ended up feeling frustrated that there will always be people in our lives who may judge the things we do, but won’t truly know Fletcher and Max because nurturing a meaningful relationship with them requires time, effort, space, empathy, and patience. Whew, anxiety is exhausting.
I started out the first day of the new year filled with joy. I snuggled with my baby boy, I listened to giggles erupting from our basement playroom as Fletcher spent the morning with one of his favorite people. I smiled and laughed with my boys and our dear friends as we soaked up the sunshine at the park on this mild winter day. I felt joy on a visceral level.
And then I allowed an overwhelming comparison to throw me completely off kilter, momentarily stealing the joy that enveloped me just hours earlier.
I’ve circled my way back to being grateful for all of the joy we experience – and all of the ways my boys make life so much more meaningful (and joyful)!, but it’s taken the better part of the evening and some writing (my outlet) to get here. This experience reminded me of how important my mental health is and how critical it is that I make time for being present, mindful and fulfilled. Because as the saying goes, you can’t pour from an empty cup. This is a level of mental and physical exhaustion I don’t have room for.