Why I Feel Jealous of Other Moms (And What Actually Helps When It Hits)
The cold coffee was sweating through the paper cup in my hand, and I could feel the faint spit-up stain on the shoulder of my gray sweatshirt where my 2-year-old had drooled on me 20 minutes earlier. I was leaning against a fence at my 7-year-old’s soccer practice, still out of breath from running back to the car to grab the shin guards I’d forgotten to pack that morning, when Sarah walked over. She was holding a glass container of sliced honeycrisp apples, wipes tucked in the pocket of her clean linen shorts, and she asked if my son wanted a piece. That’s when it hit: that sharp, tight twist low in my chest that I hate to admit to: jealousy.
I’ve known Sarah for two years. She’s the mom who organizes the snack schedule, remembers every kid’s nut allergy, and posts photos of their family weekend hikes and homemade banana bread on her Instagram feed. I stood there smiling and thanking her, and all I could think was: She never forgets shin guards. She never yells at her kids over breakfast because they’re dragging their feet. How does she do all of it? I drove home with two tired, hungry kids screaming over who got the last fruit snack in the backseat, and that night after I got them to bed, I scrolled her feed. The jealousy got worse. I compared my permanent pile of unfolded laundry on the couch to her perfectly set picnic tables, my half-frozen grocery store pizza dinners to her sourdough loaves, and I felt like I was falling short. I went to bed feeling guilty, too — why can’t I just be happy for her? What’s wrong with me?
Three days later, I had to drop my son off 20 minutes early at her house for a carpool to a scrimmage I couldn’t make. I knocked on the door 10 minutes earlier than we’d agreed, because I’d actually managed to leave the house on time for once, and her 12-year-old opened the door, half-asleep in his Minecraft pajamas. Piles of clean laundry were stacked all along the entryway hallway, a half-eaten bowl of cereal was sitting on the coffee table, and I could hear Sarah yelling from upstairs: “If you don’t find your retainer in the next two minutes we’re leaving without you and you can have your dad take you after he gets off work!”
She came down the stairs a minute later, hair half-brushed, a big dark stain across the knee of her jeans, and she laughed when she saw me staring. “Don’t judge,” she said. “The dog peed on the rug right after I got dressed this morning, and I haven’t had 10 minutes to clean it up yet. I’m this close to skipping the scrimmage and getting a coffee alone in the parking lot.” We stood there for a minute waiting for her son, and she admitted that she quit her full-time job last year because her oldest has severe social anxiety, and she needs to be home for him. The extra time she has for soccer stuff isn’t because she’s a better mom — it’s because she made a different trade-off than I did, one that comes with its own stress and worries she doesn’t post about.
That conversation stuck with me. I’d always heard the line about comparing your behind the scenes to everyone else’s highlight reel, but that day it actually clicked. Jealousy of other moms isn’t about them being better, or me being worse. It’s about the fact that we only ever get that 10-minute snapshot of someone else’s life, when they’re put-together and out in public. We don’t get the 23 hours and 50 minutes in between. I used to beat myself up for feeling jealous — I thought it meant I was a bad friend, a bitter person, a bad mom. But now I know it’s just a signal that I’m tired, and I’m measuring my own life against a standard that isn’t even real.
I started doing three small things that help, and they don’t take any extra time or money. First, when I feel that twist, I say it out loud to myself, quiet, just “that’s jealousy.” I don’t add an extra layer of guilt on top of it. I don’t call myself a bad person for feeling it. I just name it, and that takes a lot of the power out of it. Second, I keep a tiny note in my phone, and every time I feel jealous of someone, I add one messy, unglamorous thing I noticed about them that day. It doesn’t have to be big. It can be “she was 10 minutes late to pickup” or “she admitted she orders takeout three nights a week” or “her kid had a full meltdown at the playground last week.” It’s not me being mean — it’s just me reminding myself that no one’s life is as put-together as it looks from the outside. Third, I wrote down three things that count as “good enough” for me, and I keep that note taped to my fridge. My three are: we read together every night, my kids get a warm meal at least four nights a week, and I don’t yell more than once a week on average. That’s my bar. If I hit that, I don’t need to measure myself against someone else’s bar.
Last week, I felt that twist again at the school book fair. There was a mom who handmade personalized mugs for every teacher and aide in the third grade, and I’d just grabbed a $15 Starbucks gift card on my way in that morning, scribbled a quick note on the card. I stood there holding my gift card, feeling that old tightness in my chest, and then I did my thing: I named the jealousy, and I remembered that that mom posted last month she’s on medical leave for a few months, so she has extra time right now that I don’t, working part-time and chasing a toddler around. My gift card had a drawing my son drew of his teacher’s cat on the back, anyway. It was mine.
I still feel jealous sometimes. It doesn’t go away completely, I don’t think it ever will. But it doesn’t hang around, either. It doesn’t ruin my whole day like it used to. Some days, my sweatshirt has a spit-up stain and I forget the shin guards, and that’s just my life. It’s enough.
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