Learning to Share and Not Compare

It's that time of year ... again. The hustle and bustle of the Holidays. We cram a lot into the last few weeks of every year, don't we? 

We celebrate Christmas, and every year I invest a fair amount of time creating our Christmas card and curating the accompanying family update.

I don't remember sending out Christmas cards until we had kids. Once our oldest arrived, then there was actually something to "share" with friends near and far. Once said oldest could draw, I had the children create our annual card. They're all framed and proudly line the upstairs hallway - a tribute to the children's budding artistic talents (yes, there was lots of "direction" - one may call it micromanaging now, from me). 

The cards were creative - and in my memory, mostly a fun activity.  I should probably ask the kids what their memories are of that process?

The taking of the annual family photo to share inside the card was another story. I was going for the "perfect" look. There may have been matching outfits (always), haircuts and lots of combing of hair ... some whining and tears. Always tears. "I don't want to wear that outfit!" "I don't want you to take my picture." "WHY are we doing this ... EVERY year?" Oh yes, the memories of this part of the process was that it appeared to have been torturous for these three. So much so, that family pictures of all five of us are hard to come by. Thank goodness my niece got married this year and there's a good one for this year's card by the professional photographer. Although there may have been some eye rolls involved.

When we started sending family Christmas cards it was 1991. This was LONG before social media, Skype, cell phones, texting, and FaceTime (I know it's almost hard to remember those days). Every year I would curate a long newsy letter as an update with all the things we had been doing to share - it was our once-a-year "catch-up." Updates about work, our community involvement, buying our first house, the arrival of the first baby, trips we took, how our lives had changed, and other accomplishments. It was always positive and upbeat. It focused on all the GOOD news. I mean, who wants to A - send a card with bad news OR B - read a card with bad news? NO ONE. 

There wasn't much "bad news" back then. I suppose I could have written about losing hours of sleep, thanks to having a baby in the house - or the act of changing diapers was certainly no fun - or feeling like my body was no longer "mine" thanks to breastfeeding. I mean who disses breastfeeding or feels resentment in a Christmas card? I could have written about how I never seemed to lose the baby weight, despite (what appeared) many friends popping right back into shape. One year I "lost" our oldest in an elevator in a downtown parking lot, the other two were in a double stroller (there were no triple strollers back then), and I was panicked and terrified. Then came shame - who loses their kid? We had a flood in the basement one year, that was a mess, and felt like our first "grown up" decision and big expense. None of these things made the letter. 

Then, as life happens, kids get bigger, and issues get bigger. You've heard the saying - "little kids - little problems ... big kids - bigger problems." To say I wasn't prepared as a parent is an understatement. We intentionally raised our kids to be curious and adventurous - to take risks, think outside the box, to be problem solvers, and live life on their terms. I was always independent - and by golly, these kids were going to be independent. What we also got was stubborn, strong-willed and determined. That's quite a combination - and most definitely challenging as parents during their adolescence. 

During the most challenging years, what was I going to write about in the annual letter? I felt trapped - I always had so much good news to share. I fell into the trap of compare and despair - the more I read of all our friends' newsy updates and saw their "perfect" pictures - well, the less I wrote. In fact, I stopped writing our annual Christmas letter. It was just too hard to curate. I didn't have the courage then to share what was really going on. I felt shame and embarrassment. We weren't "enough" - I felt like a failure as a parent - I wasn't "enough." What would our friends think if I shared the TRUTH? 

Then time went on, and things still felt "messy" (far from perfect), yet I, too, changed. I can't tell you how or exactly when. After we lost our brother to suicide in 2014, I remember thinking, "I can't share this story or my story of caregiving – it didn't end well." Then, something magical happened, each and every time I found the courage to be vulnerable and share my story, people would come up to me and share: "I felt alone and ashamed - thank you for sharing" - "I had no idea - that sounds hard - thank you for sharing" - "now I know how to help my friend whose going through something hard - thank you for sharing." I was repeatedly told that by sharing my story, I was bringing hope and healing to others. It normalized how I was feeling. It validated my caregiving. It affirmed others. It reduced the shame and stigma around mental illness and suicide. Maybe here, I was enough?

Then, the Christmas after our oldest's motorcycle accident, where he sustained a life-changing traumatic brain injury, I was encouraged to start and keep up a CaringBridge site to keep our (and his that we didn't know well yet) friends and family updated on his progress. It became cathartic and healing and, honestly, changed my life. It became a journal of our experience and how we coped. It became a lifeline between our family and the hundreds of people (many strangers at first) who were holding us in their prayers and thoughts. By getting real with how I felt - those raw emotions of fear, guilt, shame, anger, worry, dread, confusion, gratitude, and ultimately hope - again, I was normalizing navigating trauma. 

Building resilience is no fun. It's hard and complicated. It has growing pains and is oftentimes filled with mistakes and wrong turns. Life is not always sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns - I know that, yet, I don't have to like it. We don't get to feel joy, happiness, contentment, pride, and peace without also feeling sadness, guilt, shame, embarrassment, and disappointment. We're human - and come with the full spectrum of emotions. These are normal reactions to (mostly) normal situations. 

I haven't written a long newsy Christmas letter for many, many years. Maybe this will be the year I find the courage to start again? Maybe someone out there needs to know that in their story of pain and heartache ... they're not alone. Or another caregiver out there needs to know that caregiving is hard, and long, and you can get weary ... and, they are enough. 

Today I will remind myself that I am enough. YOU are enough, too.