It’s a Saturday morning, and I’m enjoying a hefty sandwich while listening in on a conversation at a nearby table. Egg and cheese are dripping down my fingers. As I contemplate whether to grab a truckload of napkins or just a fork, I catch wind of some unfortunate news.
Someone at the table just had their high-end power washer stolen from their open garage. Her friends express sympathy, murmuring “tut” and promising prayers. I can’t help but roll my eyes; don’t they have serious issues to deal with?
I wish my judgment was reserved solely for strangers, but that’s not the case. There are moments when family or friends share personal struggles, and I find myself quietly casting stones. A lost sports tournament, a disappointing grade, or a home renovation gone awry. Yes, these are setbacks, some quite significant. But when I observe someone’s devastation over what seems like a minor disappointment, I reach for my robe and gavel.
My tendency to judge intensified after my daughter was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. One day, I was stressed about work like everyone else, and the next, a doctor was sharing statistics that shifted our family’s entire perspective.
Any other parents out there feel me? “Your child has to wear a mask to school? Please. My kid has cancer.” Cue the mic drop.
However, these inner comparisons have taught me one thing: it can always get worse.
I hate that COVID has stretched into another school year, but my children have dedicated teachers doing their best. What about the girls in Afghanistan whose educational dreams have been shattered?
My mom is battling cancer, and time is limited, but she’s had 79 years filled with joy and love. What about the local teens who lost their lives to a drunk driver?
My daughter lives with cystic fibrosis, yet she reads with enthusiasm and races down the track with joy. What about the friend who lost her child? Or the friend who would do anything to become a parent?
While this line of thinking can foster perspective, it can also prevent us from fully experiencing our own emotions—frustration, rage, devastation, and grief. Each feeling is valid and has its rightful place in our lives. If we don’t acknowledge these emotions when they surface, how can we begin to process them?
Moreover, this comparison can create emotional distance between us and others. When I silently measure a loved one’s challenges against my own, I’m dismissing the shared humanity in suffering and failing to listen with empathy. I’m denying myself—and my loved one—the chance to connect authentically.
There’s no universal measure for sadness. What floors me might be a mere bump in the road for you, while my hiccups could feel overwhelming to someone else.
But honestly, who cares? This isn’t the Competition of Grief. Sometimes, we just need to hear, “That sounds tough, and I’m here for you.”
I’m working on putting away my scale. When someone shares a struggle, I’m making an effort to acknowledge the thoughts that rush into my mind. Some are reasonable, others less so, and there’s typically an “It could be worse” tucked in there somewhere.
And that’s perfectly fine. The more I recognize my instinct to compare, the more I can begin to loosen its grip on me, allowing me to focus on what truly matters: loving myself, loving others, and accepting love in return.
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