Comparison: The Thief of Joy
For being a person who blogs (intermittently), I am surprised by how much I am intimidated by other blogs.
Intellectually, I know that the quote, "Comparison is the thief of joy," is 100% true. Thanks Theodore Roosevelt for saying that. But it doesn't stop the feelings of inadequacy from creeping in after I've read a particularly put-together blog or spent too much time on Instagram.
Paris? I want to be in Paris!
Look at those perfectly pedicured toes in those perfect sandals on that perfect white beach!
Why doesn't my fireplace mantel look like that?
Her toddler isn't insisting on wearing a purple-and-grey striped shirt with khaki-and-coral pants and winter boots when it's 100 degrees outside! What gives?
No, I don't decorate my world with impeccable taste within 3 weeks of moving in to a new house. I've lived in my house for 7 months and have put exactly three nail holes in the walls. But then I have to tell myself that I have other values and priorities competing for my time, and every day I am making the choice to put my energy there instead:
chasing my toddler and discovering the wonderful person she's becoming
performing a fulfilling job for a company I believe in
making time to exercise and to read—and to read to my daughter
eating well (now it's no sugar and no refined flour replaced by fruits & veggies and only "real food" for a week now and counting)
learning to stop sacrificing my sleep for all of the things I always want to do
The decor thing is just the most recent yardstick by which I'm trying not to measure my worth. I've also found myself feeling smaller after reading a blog by someone who had sacrificed nearly all of her material goods to live a life of service. How silly to alternately allow two completely opposite lifestyle choices to make me feel inadequate. (And the key word there is “allow.” No one can make me feel small without my permission.)
Yes, I know that the versions of themselves that 99% of bloggers post online are not their whole selves. They post the version that they want the world to see, the sides of themselves that fit their online brand. And I don't blame anyone for that. I know I don't rush to my blog to recount my worst qualities, to post unflattering pictures of myself with bed hair, to publicly expose the struggles of people I love (even though those struggles can affect my daily life greatly), or to share my ugliest mistakes and misjudgments.
I've talked with friends of mine about this, and I know I'm not alone in my visceral response to all of the seemingly perfect lives I see posted online—and sometimes those that stare me in the face in person. The rise of blogging, Instagram, and Pinterest has just made it easier for all of us to broadcast a shiny version of our lives for all the world to see. I don't necessarily feel that there's anything wrong with that. (Why would anyone want to expose their vulnerabilities to the cold, uncaring, and often brutal world of the Internet at large? Why shouldn't we be able to only share the best version of ourselves?) The problem comes when we, the reading public, believe that that's the whole story. And that our own story doesn't measure up. When we compare our worst days to everyone else’s best days.
Perfection is an illusion, albeit an enticing one.
I deeply value authenticity, and I always have, but the mirage of perfection is always beckoning, made worse by the shiny happy online world. And that's why the book, The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You're Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are by Dr. Brene Brown was an absolute revelation.
Photo from Brenebrown.com
It's short and sweet, and it helped clarify the swirling thoughts and feelings that have been inside of me for years—that the goal is not and should not be perfection, so stop believing that it's even possible. The real goal if you want happiness, hope, and connection should be authenticity and whole-hearted living.
And we’re not going to find any of that through a screen.