The Thief of Joy

Over the last few years, I've learned not to scan social media around the holidays. The dull pain of loss, which is tolerable most days, becomes unbearable when I see photos of whole families - a smiling husband and wife with their children, grandparents, massive amounts of extended family - everything that I lost comes crashing down at once and hits me with such and intense force that I am blinded with tears.

Granted, I know that those perfect-looking family photos were probably acquired with much arguing, toddler tantrums, and multiple outtakes. I know how that goes. It's more of a painful reminder that my once large family has been whittled down by a combination of death and human brokenness. I'm glad that my children have wonderful, large holidays with their father's family. I know that they are having fun and being doted on by their grandparents. That thought makes my holidays without them at least bearable.

Without thinking this weekend, however, I started scrolling through Facebook and Instagram to find those pictures of "whole" families. While genuinely happy for my dear friends and their Easter celebrations, I couldn't help but hurt. I was curled up in my bed after volunteering to work extra hours, pajama-clad and exhausted. I let myself grieve quietly for a while. One thing that I've learned about grief is that it's not linear. It comes in waves. It's not something you "get over." It never gets better, you merely learn to cope with it. You learn to accept what is and avoid triggers as much as possible. The thing that I have realized is that grief doesn't always directly apply to a loved one's death. While I did lose two close family members to death over the last couple of years, I also lost relationships; relationships that should not have been broken, but they were lost to me. I lost a future that I wanted for myself and my kids.

Theodore Roosevelt once said "Comparison is the thief of joy." I couldn't agree more, and slowly began to realize that comparison was my biggest trigger. I have to accept that the life I imagined for myself (a happy marriage & a large family) is lost to me. But something occurred to me last night as I watched my little tribe at the dinner table - my brother and his expectant wife, my kids, and my "adopted" little sister - THIS is my big family. I may not have a conventional family full of blood-relatives and in-laws, but God brought people into my life. My "tribe" of young women who have gone through (or are currently going through) similar situations to mine. "My girls," as I fondly refer to them. The girls that text me in the middle of the night with  a problem, the ones I love to cook for and fuss over like a mother hen, the ones I help with their college papers late at night. You know who you are, dear ones. You are my tribe. You help me look outside of myself. You teach me how to parent when my own children become older.

Then as I think about this, I have a hard time feeling sorry for myself. My family is unconventional at best, but these are my people. Perhaps one day, I'll be the doting grandmother watching her grown children with their own families sitting around the dinner table for holiday gatherings. Either way, my heart and my home will always be full... just maybe not the way I planned it.