I had a moment this week where a seemingly small comment unexpectedly nudged something in me.
After pouring my heart into a Mother’s Day celebration for my large family – planning, cooking, preparing, trying to make it feel special for everyone, I found out the next day that a comment was made about things not being good enough. The food wasn’t warm enough. Little things. But unexpectedly… it hurt.
Part of my work around that feeling was recognizing what that pain really was, because of course it wasn’t about the food.
I poured care, planning, emotional energy, physical labor, and a good amount of invisible mental load into creating something meaningful for everyone.
And instead of feeling held or appreciated afterward, what reached my ears was criticism about something small and human.
That hurt, not because the comment itself matters, but because it lands on top of the deeper hope underneath it all:
I wanted this to feel loving, and I wanted everyone to feel cared for.
Basically, I wanted it to be special.
And it was special.
I think sometimes people consume care without fully recognizing the person who created it. Especially in family systems, there’s this strange phenomenon where the more reliable someone is, the more their effort unconsciously becomes expected instead of received as the gift that it is.
But that does not mean the effort was lacking.
I also had to remind myself that criticism tends to travel farther than gratitude. One offhand complaint can eclipse ten quiet people who genuinely enjoyed themselves and felt nourished, or appreciated simply being together.
Most people do not verbalize appreciation with the same intensity that others verbalize complaints.
Also, the fact that this brought me such emotion told me it touched something older too.
That tender place of feeling unseen after giving.
Or a big one for me, feeling responsible for everyone’s comfort.
Maybe hoping love would be returned in equal measure. I could go on here. But I think you get the jist. It touched on something in me that clearly still had a tender spot.
That “why do I even bother?” feeling rarely arrives from just one comment.
But after sitting with it I realized something:
The part of me that cares this deeply is not the problem. My tenderness is not the problem.
Nor is my willingness to love wholeheartedly.
In a world that can feel increasingly disconnected, I actually don’t want to lose the part of me that still wants to create warmth for people.
I just think many of us are longing to be considered in the same way we consider others.