We went to visit a friend’s new baby. She was just a few months old, and we brought a meal along with some little goodies, hoping to ease the overwhelming load that a newborn can bring. I walked into their beautiful suburban home, juggling bags and my children, and then I looked up—and froze.
There she was, a woman whose body could have made Heidi Klum look like she’d just rolled out of bed. She was impossibly thin, almost fragile-looking, the exhaustion of a new mother written plainly on her face. There wasn’t an ounce of baby weight anywhere, even though it had been only a few months since giving birth. And there I was, my youngest still a toddler, and I wasn’t even close to being “perfectly” shaped.
I smiled, carried on with small talk, but in that moment, I judged myself. I know it sounds shallow, even ridiculous—but I did. Instead of congratulating myself for the progress I’d made after raising three boys, instead of recognizing that every body and every journey is different, I judged. Harshly. Even now, I feel the sting of shame for that instant of self-criticism.
Then, just this past week, I learned the devastating truth. That same woman is in jail. She has permanently lost custody of her daughter because of addiction—crystal meth, a drug that strips the body as mercilessly as it strips lives. My heart broke. I cried for the family torn apart, for the little girl facing a future without her mother, and for the woman herself, now facing years behind bars, battling a disease most never overcome.
And in that heartbreak, I learned something I had always known but never felt so painfully: never judge yourself by what you see in others. It’s a lesson I had always preached but somehow failed to practice. What if, instead of wrapping myself in my own self-conscious thoughts about my size, I had looked closer, really seen her, and reached out before things spiraled? What if I had noticed the cracks behind the mask instead of fixating on what appeared perfect on the surface?
Her story isn’t about me, yet it left me with a lesson I can’t forget. I still feel foolish for my initial judgment, but now I’m a little wiser for it. Learn from my mistake: don’t measure yourself against another’s appearance or apparent success. You have no idea what battles they are facing behind closed doors.
Your role is not to compare. Your role is to uplift. It is to check in with those around you, to offer a space free of judgment, to allow others to carry their burdens without fear of criticism. Your role is to love—and to love well, genuinely, without reservation.
