A Gift for Mom! 🤍

Let me tell you something about HER.

You know the one. The mom behind you in school drop off. Boss babe goals, mother of three who looks like Christie Brinkley in the flesh. Did she get a new car? I mean, of course she did. A Lexus—no big deal. Annndd my check engine light just came on. Awesome. OMG what is that smell? Is that milk??? Why can’t I be more like her?

They say comparison is the thief of joy, but what exactly is joy? Because quite frankly, I feel as if the lines have become quite blurred. Is it HERS or mine? Does it look like what SHE has or what I have? Far too often, I feel as if joy looks more like her life, her job, her body, her marriage, and her health. And yet, we know nothing about HER.

Somewhere along the way, we started treating joy as an ideal state. This place of unmarked perfection. Phrases like I’ll be happy when (fill in the blank HERE) roll off our tongues.

We chase objects and titles, homes and possessions, and call it the quest for joy. Sis, that’s not chasing joy, that’s chasing comparison.

Joy isn’t found in a perfectly filtered Instagram square or in what SHE is doing—it’s a state of mind.

For years I would walk across the street once a week to the local homeless shelter and serve lunch to the men there. Always sure to engage in friendly small talk, I would ask, “How are you today?” flashing a smile.

“I’m blessed. How are you?”

BLESSED.

Sis, these men had nothing to their name other than the clothes on their backs, but they had enough joy and perspective to realize they were alive. They were living. They had a warm meal and a place to stay and keep warm. They were thankful. You want to talk about perspective.

But still, we look for it, don’t we? We chase it down and cling to it with everything we have. We accumulate things, quick beauty tips get pinned to our boards, we finance cars and homes and wonder why we are still left feeling empty. We objectify and idolize it. We hang our very worth and legacy on THINGS.

Sister, hear me.

Joy isn’t a trophy you can hang on a shelf or a car parked in your garage. You’re not going to find it in designer clothes, the latest fad diets or title you carry—it’s how you LIVE. It’s what you value and how you feel. It’s going through hard times and choosing to keep your chin up. It’s the impact you make on others. It’s giving love even when it’s hard.

That joy you’re searching so hard for? You’re just looking in all the wrong places. It’s not found in HER life. It’s right in front of you.

It’s the mess you’ve cleaned for the fiftieth time.
It’s the kids laughing in the living room.
It’s building a life together no matter how messy and chaotic.
It’s fighting for your marriage through the not so great times only to emerge on the other side stronger than ever.
It’s getting up through tired eyes knowing that today you get one more day on this earth.

Joy isn’t a destination, it’s a state of being. A conscious mindset of being grateful every single day.

Is it always easy? No. Choose it anyway. Every single day.

This post originally appeared on They Whine, So I Wine

 

You may also like:

When Comparison Almost Steals Your Joy

I’m Tired of Trying So Hard

So God Made a Grandmother book by Leslie Means

If you liked this, you'll love our book, SO GOD MADE A GRANDMA

Order Now!

Jennifer Thompson

Jennifer is a working mom, blogger, wife, and mama to one rambunctious little boy. Surviving motherhood with a good laugh, dance parties to Trolls, lots of coffee and a glass of wine. Follow along with her blog for the not so perfect, unorganized and unfiltered working mom at www.theywhinesoiwine.com.

I Never Got to Meet My Grandmother on This Side of Heaven

In: Living
Old black and white family photo

Grandmother, I never met you this side of Heaven, but I feel as though I have. Your pictures, scattered throughout my mother’s home, tell your story. Born to a woman who came to this country alone when she was just 16, you would be the youngest of four, with two sisters and a brother. Your short, dark, straight hair clings to your little face, a line of bangs neatly combed high on your forehead. You couldn’t be more than three years old as you sit on a stool at your sister’s First Holy Communion. The black and white photo makes...

Keep Reading

The Hardest Part of Divorce Is Being Away from My Kids

In: Living, Marriage, Motherhood
Woman in driver's seat

I’ve written several times about how divorce has allowed me to find myself again, and how that version is even better than the one I was before I was married. All of that is still true. I am happier than I’ve ever been. More confident and sure of myself. I understand my emotions and how to handle myself when things get tough or scary. I am more grounded and calm than I’ve ever been. Truly, I have come out on top. I’ve received comments about how happy I look, how I’m “living my best life with kids only half the...

Keep Reading

My Dad Gave Us Something Money Never Could

In: Living
Family smiling in posed photo

I was talking with my dad the other day about an upcoming Disney trip with our kids. I told him all we planned to do while we were there and how excited the kids were. He sat and listened, taking it all in. And then he said something that put a lump in my throat. “I’m so glad you’re able to give your kids the life that I couldn’t.” He went on to say he still carries some guilt–that he wishes he could have done more, taken us on trips, given us experiences he couldn’t. Hearing that broke my heart....

Keep Reading

Dear Daddy, I Wish You Could See Yourself As We Do

In: Living, Marriage
father with two young children

The side of my husband who is hardest on himself usually shows up late at night. The house is quiet, the kids are finally asleep, and the day has done what it always does—taken everything it could from both of us. That’s usually when it comes out. The voice in his head that tells him he’s not doing enough as a father. Not present enough. Not patient enough. Not good enough. He doesn’t say it lightly. He says it like someone confessing a truth he wishes wasn’t true. Like he’s already measured himself against some invisible standard of fatherhood and...

Keep Reading

Mothers and Stepmothers: Who’s on First?

In: Living
Little girl looking through fingers

The roles. The expectations. The unspoken, undefined rules. The hurt feelings no one wants to talk about. It could be a scene from an old Abbott and Costello routine: “Who’s on first?” Motherhood is rarely clear-cut. And if you’ve ever tried to navigate life alongside a stepmother—or as one—you know how quickly things can become complicated. Add a stepmother to the mix, and suddenly it’s a relay race where no one’s quite sure who’s holding the baton, or if anyone wants it. This isn’t a story about winners and losers or choosing sides. It isn’t about who is right or...

Keep Reading

Do We Really Want a ’90s Summer?

In: Living
Girl holding popsicle

The year is 2026: we’re inviting thousands of strangers to get ready with us, threatening our own deaths on a lot of different hills and, if you’re a millennial mom, determined to have a ’90s summer. Some top to-dos on the ’90s mom summer checklist? Lots of outside play, limited screens, less hustle, more simplicity. Overall, evoking the “carefree” summers of the 1990s. But did anyone ever ask the real ‘90s moms if summers back then were all we’re cracking them up to be? If my own memory serves me right, my parents talked a whole lot about summers in...

Keep Reading

To the Woman Who Was Betrayed

In: Living, Marriage
Woman looking off to the fog

He promised you a lifetime, a family, safety, and security. You carried life and brought it into this world for him. Even still, in the trenches of postpartum, he betrayed you. It was never your fault. This is something I’ve fought to tell myself every single day since the day I discovered my marriage was never meant to last. Because the truth is, betrayal is never about you; it’s about them, and the character flaws deep within they’d rather bury than face. He watched as you fought for your life after delivery while your tiny, premature newborn spent the first...

Keep Reading

5 Things I’m Learning about 50

In: Living
birthday balloons

When my dad turned 80, he—and we, by default—celebrated all year. My sister made a fantastic, larger-than-life sign of him posing in front of his friend’s antique car, with beautiful calligraphy that trumpeted, “Cheers to you, celebrating 80 years of life!” The sign welcomed his closest friends and family into a private room at a steakhouse, where we toasted his 80 years—and the grandkids toasted his steady presence in their lives. The sign moved from the swanky steakhouse to the second-floor banister in my parents’ house. When you walked in, it greeted you—a feel-good conversation starter and a reminder to...

Keep Reading

I’m Constantly Waiting for the Metaphorical Axe To Fall

In: Living
Woman worried with head in lap

I knew people died. I just didn’t think it applied to us. Mortality met me in grade two with a punch to the gut when my teacher confirmed casually that, yes, everybody dies. What do you mean, everybody dies? I frantically thought, but kept my question to myself. Up until that moment, I had quietly believed my family was exempt from that fate. I thought death was a monster that only took other people and left my family alone. They say all panic has an origin story, and mine began shortly after that realization, fueled by a disconnected phone cord...

Keep Reading

The Apology You Deserve May Never Come

In: Living
Woman standing in field wearing hat

“You have to accept that you will likely never get the apology you deserve.” When my therapist said those words, I felt everything at once-anger, resentment, heartbreak. It was as if the air had been pulled straight from my lungs. Because accepting that truth meant letting go of something I had been holding onto for a long time: the hope that one day, it would all be acknowledged. My family was deeply wronged. Not in a way that can be brushed off or easily forgotten, but in a way that cut to the core. There were lies wrapped in deception,...

Keep Reading