Comparison is the thief of joy

The true thief of my joy is failure.

As a mother, a wife, a woman, as a home decorator, as a chef, as a blogger. As everything. In my eyes, I fail far more than I succeed.

The failure comes from comparison. Mostly, from the picture perfect image I have in my head. That woman that wears dresses and heels everyday with perfectly styled hair and makeup, that has an immaculate house and cooks each meal from scratch. The woman whose children never say ‘damn it’ or hit or bite and and wear clothes from Janie and Jack and mini boden.

She does crafts every day.

Her laundry pile is small.

She painted chevron curtains over the weekend, then wrote a tutorial.

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If she exists I don’t know her. But I see parts of her in other women, on Pinterest, on blogs and in my mind. The mother I wanted to be was already set to something unachievable and then we found website after website where women could show off their talents and creativity and talk about their perfect lives.

You start to compare yourself and start to think you should be able to do that. Like you aren’t the best wife if you don’t like to cook. That maybe you’re not the best mother if you don’t stay home with your kids. That your blog is mediocre if each post isn’t pinned and repinned 5,000 times.

Comparison really is the thief of joy.

Reading everyone’s well put together lives on the Internet and pinning all the things you’ll never actually make, is just like reading Nicholas Sparks’ novels and expecting your marriage to compare. Guess what, it won’t.

And for the sake of honesty and not doing exactly what I think so many other women are doing, I’ll let you in on a little secret. The extent of my comparison – mostly to the image I’ve created myself – has caused so much guilt that I’ve sought help. It’s caused so much guilt that I barely feel any other emotion and am on an uphill battle to not feel awful every single day.

I have to stop and I have to feel happy and content and worthy. I have to. Continuing to give this imaginary woman any more of my time is only making me feel worse and I will never, ever be her.

And in case one of you feels like me today, let me leave you with a photo from my current view while I’m sitting here holding the baby and typing this from my phone. Behold, three baskets of clean kids clothes that have yet to be put away:

And who knows how long it is going to sit there.