This was a tough week. There are terrible colds and flus going around, not to mention a possible global pandemic. My father has been in the hospital twice, for two different things. I witnessed a very sad situation at work (more on that below). I found myself surprisingly devastated by Elizabeth Warren’s departure from the presidential race; not surprised that she left, but by the number of times I’ve cried about it since. And waves of grief over my nephew’s recent death roll up in ways I think are normal, but difficult nonetheless.

I know a lot of people who are struggling right now with some of the same things and some of their own. There are also refugees desperate for safety and their very lives. People are dying from or quarantined with coronavirus. Regular people are struggling to make ends meet and some don’t know where they will sleep tonight. Caretakers all over the world are exhausted.

There are also people with jobs, jobs with decent pay and good benefits, who every day have to deal with awful bosses or obnoxious clientele that are slowly wearing down their spirits. People with neighbors or roommates that make them dread going to their own homes. People with tendinitis or who didn’t make the team. People who just got dumped or wish they had more friends. People who who want to weigh less.

I see a lot of advice online about how unhealthy it is to compare yourself to others that you think have it better than you. There are reminders that social media is full of carefully curated posts by people showing you only the best parts of their lives. Constantly comparing yourself to someone else leaves you perpetually unsatisfied with what you have or who you are.

I agree. And I think there is more: it is also unhealthy to compare yourself to those you think have it worse then you do. I hear this all the time: I shouldn’t feel bad about this; there are so many people who are dealing with much worse things.

Wrong.

If I could banish one word in the English language it would be “should” and particularly in this context. I understand the impulse. I have been extremely fortunate in my life. I have a lot to be grateful for and there was a period of time in the last few years where I felt like I could never talk about the hard things I was dealing with, because they paled in comparison to the hard things people around me had going on. To do so would have been tasteless and made me look like a terrible ingrate. And you know how that left me feeling? Very lonely.

It turns out, the issue wasn’t that I wasn’t talking about those things with anyone (though it certainly helps to have people you can tell anything to), it was that I wasn’t even giving myself permission to feel those things. In her essay “No Safe Place” from the collection I Miss You When I Blink, Mary Laura Philpott wrote something I really needed to read:

…one person’s more-sad doesn’t cancel out another person’s less-sad. The fact that an earthquake took out a whole city block doesn’t make it hurt less when you trip and snap your ankle. Your neighbor’s cancer doesn’t make it painless for you to lose your job…Bad things are still bad things, even if there are worse things…our personal concerns don’t go away just because the world is going up in flames on a global scale. That’s not how it works.

I think this is so important. We all have to process our pain in order to be our best selves. Stuffing it down because we’ve decided it “doesn’t count” rarely leads to good things. It mostly leads to resentment.

A few weeks ago I chided myself for feeling bad about something when I was hearing from others about much bigger problems. I stopped and asked myself “What is bothering you? Why does it cause you stress or hurt?” After reflecting on those questions, I told myself “Yep. That sucks. I’m sorry you have to deal with that.” But here’s the best part: I’m not being intentionally vague about whatever it was that was bothering me. I don’t remember what it was. I remember the experience because I was already thinking about this blog post and meant to write about it sooner. But I no longer have any idea what I was upset about. I’m not sure I would have forgotten so easily if I hadn’t stopped and taken the time to just let myself feel shitty for a few minutes.

Sometimes not comparing can allow you to work through something and get it out of your system. Other times it can be fuel for something more productive. The work thing I had this week that was hard was sitting with a woman in her seventies as her son, my client, was humiliated by a judge who clearly has no understanding of how mental illness works. My client was given a prison sentence that likely means his mother will never see him again. I was deeply pained by this experience, but my pain was very different than her pain and hers is unquestionably worse. It would be tempting for me to say to myself “Buck up, you have no right to dwell on this. She’s losing her son.” But if I did that, instead of acknowledging the sadness and anger I feel about the systemic issues that contributed to my client’s situation, I would not be motivated to keep working for things to be better. I need to feel my pain around this, and she needs to feel hers. Yes, hers will be ever-present in a way that mine won’t. But it doesn’t mean mine doesn’t exist.

Perspective is important. Of course there are degrees of pain and some things are harder than others. I don’t recommend complaining about your long hours at the office to someone who was just laid off. Or whining about a delayed flight on your vacation to someone who hasn’t had a break in years. (That one’s for me…I’ve done that and I need to stop.) And sometimes, when you’re in a bad mood about something small reminding yourself that it is small in the grand scheme of things is helpful. Just don’t shame yourself for having feelings.

You can be grateful for what you have while also letting yourself feel that some things suck and having compassion for others that might be struggling more. You can do all three things, at the same time even. In fact, maybe you should. (Oops.)

Additional recommendations

I loved and recommend the book by Mary Laura Philpott that I mentioned above, but my favorite book from the last several years also gets at this idea: Tell Me More: Stories about the Twelve Hardest Things I’m Learning to Say by Kelly Corrigan. She writes beautifully about the mystery of getting pissed off by daily irritations in the wake of terrible tragedy. I have both the paper and audio versions of the book and I have listened to it at least 4 times.

For a little snapshot of what that book is like, give a listen to this episode (Season 3, Episode 2 from 5/20/2019) of the Everything Happens podcast with Kate Bowler.