It’s Saturday morning, and I’m indulging in a massive sandwich while listening in on a conversation at a nearby table. Egg and cheese are dripping down my hands, making me contemplate whether I need a ton of napkins or just a fork. That’s when I catch some unfortunate news.
Someone at the table shares that a high-end power washer was stolen from a neighbor’s open garage. Her friends nod sympathetically, murmuring prayers. I can’t help but roll my eyes at my plate. Don’t these people have real issues?
I wish my judgment was limited to strangers, but sadly, it extends to friends and family too. When someone shares their troubles—a lost tournament, a mediocre grade, or a home repair gone wrong—I often find myself mentally dismissing their struggles. A job opportunity missed, a pet that passed, or a dental procedure that went sideways. Sure, these are setbacks, some quite significant, but when the level of devastation seems disproportionate to the inconvenience, I feel a need to intervene.
My critical thoughts intensified after my daughter was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. One moment, I was stressed about work like everyone else; the next, I was grappling with statistics that would forever alter our family’s dynamics.
Any other parents relate? “Your child has to wear a mask at school? Please. My kid has cancer.” Mic drop.
But these comparisons have shown me one stark truth: it could always be worse. I may be frustrated that COVID is still affecting another school year, but my kids are fortunate to have dedicated teachers. What about the girls in Afghanistan whose educational dreams have vanished?
My mom is battling cancer, and time is limited, but she has lived a rich 79 years filled with love. What about the local teens whose lives were tragically cut short by a drunk driver?
My daughter lives with cystic fibrosis, but she’s a voracious reader and loves to run. What about my friend who lost a child? Or another friend who longs for a child of her own?
While this line of thinking can provide perspective, it can also diminish our ability to sit with our own emotions—frustration, rage, devastation, and grief. These feelings are valid and deserve acknowledgment. If we overlook our emotions, how can we begin to process them?
Moreover, comparing our struggles can create emotional distance. When I weigh a loved one’s pain against my own, I miss out on the shared human experience of suffering and fail to engage with genuine empathy. This not only deprives me of meaningful connections but also my loved ones.
There are no universal benchmarks for sadness. What devastates me may feel minor to you, and vice versa. But that’s irrelevant; this isn’t a competition for who suffers more. Sometimes, all we need to hear is, “That sounds tough, and I’m here for you.”
I’m working on putting away my mental scale. When someone opens up about their hardship, I’m trying to pause and recognize the thoughts that pop into my head—some rational, others not. Often, there’s an “it could be worse” thought lurking in there.
But that’s perfectly okay. The more I acknowledge my instinct to compare, the more I can loosen its grip on me. And the sooner I can focus on what truly matters: loving myself, loving others, and being open to receiving love in return. For more insights on navigating personal challenges, check out this other blog post.
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In summary, we must stop comparing the weight of our grief and recognize that it’s valid no matter the source. By embracing our emotions and offering compassion to others, we can foster deeper connections and healing.
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