Monica was a member of my writers’ group in Dublin—a woman in her forties, robust yet graceful, with auburn hair, a ready smile, and quick wit. Married to George, she was a stay-at-home mom to three teenagers. We bonded over our shared interests: poetry, crafts, and dogs. Every Saturday, right after the writers’ group meeting, I’d spend the afternoon at her place sipping Earl Grey tea, munching on digestive biscuits, diving into the quirks of life, and laughing until we were both in tears. Her King Charles spaniel watched us from the rug in front of the fireplace, wagging its tail and occasionally peeing on the carpet because, at 15, it was mildly incontinent.
At the time, I was going through a rough patch in my marriage, marked by serious doubts about my self-worth. So I won’t deny that I was a bit envious. No, I was genuinely envious of Monica’s comfortable lifestyle, with a husband who adored her, enough money to buy endless supplies of wool and knitting needles, and plenty of time to write poems, make pincushions, and crochet mint green baby jerseys to donate to the local women’s shelter.
One Saturday, Monica didn’t come to the writers’ group, so I decided to check on her. Instead of Monica, her husband answered the door.
“I’m sorry, Monica’s not feeling well,” he whispered through the gap in the door. It was clear he wasn’t going to let me in.
“Is she sick?” I asked.
“No, she’s just not herself today.”
I found out the following Monday, when I rang the doorbell again, how “not herself” Monica was, because the person who opened the door was, and was not, my friend. Usually carefully groomed, the woman who came out wore a scruffy nightgown with flappy sleeves and out-of-shape slippers and had a bird’s-nest hairdo.
I followed her into the usually immaculate sitting room, which, that day, was stuffy, reeked of dog pee (her King Charles Spaniel had urinated all over the carpet), and had half-empty cups of tea with cigarette butts all over the place.
My friend sank onto the sofa, staring blankly at the wall. I sat next to her, waiting for her to tell me what to do.
After a few minutes, she cried, “I can’t go on. I simply can’t.”
She spent the next hour telling me how miserable her life was, how she had nothing to live for, and how utterly lost and alone she felt.
“What’s the point of living if everything is so bleak?” she whispered.
I was stunned. It wasn’t the same Monica I had known for two years—confident, strong, and seemingly always in control. Or so I thought.
The next day, a member of the writers’ group told me Monica had been struggling with episodes of depression for years.
“She hides it well, but occasionally it becomes too much for her,” she said.
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked.
“How can she be depressed? She has a husband who loves her. Her kids are awesome.
She’s doing what she loves. She should count her blessings!”
That’s what I said aloud, but inside I was thinking, “She’s so ungrateful! The woman who has it all is depressed!”
It wasn’t until later, when I had to fight depression despite having achieved financial stability and having a supportive partner, that I realized external factors don’t always guarantee happiness.
For some reason, the level of serotonin in my brain—a chemical that regulates mood, sleep, and appetite—dropped below normal, making me feel persistent sadness and a loss of interest in things I used to enjoy. My mood swings made life seem like I was weaving through a fog. I realized how complicated mental health issues can be only when the shoe was on my foot.
The second time I failed to show empathy was when my mother went through a difficult period after retiring.
I remember my mom as a fireball. Or a firecracker. Sometimes both. She was so full of life and passion that she not only lit up every room she entered but literally set it ablaze! She worked two jobs, cooked all our meals from scratch, and still found time to look after a spinster aunt.
She rarely took breaks longer than a few minutes and was always on the move. Time-consuming chores, though pointless, were a must in any self-respecting Polish household when I was growing up. They included dusting the many crystal goblets in our China cabinet, washing the windowpanes with a mixture of lukewarm water and vinegar, and, of course, rearranging the living room furniture every few weeks to add a touch of chaos.
At 70, Mom looked after a neighbor’s toddler, who first grew on her, then stole her heart, and finally became her whole world. And then, suddenly, her universe fell apart. All because, at 13, her beloved toddler had grown into a moody pre-teen, more independent and no longer needing (or wanting) her constant attention, which he called “meddling.” It might sound cliché, but Mom was lost without a purpose.
By then, I had already forgotten my judgmental attitude toward Monica and, with a sense of self-righteousness, told my mother to count her blessings. She was still healthy, had two daughters who loved her to bits, and, to kill time, could join a book club or find a new hobby to fill the void left by her “foster child’s” newfound independence.
It didn’t work. The firecracker had burned out, and the previous spark was just a damp wick. Not even a flicker of her former self remained. In less than two years, she was bedridden and kept talking nonstop about wanting to die.
These experiences taught me that we rarely truly grasp someone else’s feelings. My initial impressions of Monica and my mother were based on surface-level observations rather than genuine empathy. Only by walking—both literally and figuratively—in their shoes did I begin to count my blessings, and there are many.
I am fortunate to be retired and to live a comfortable, stress-free life—no luxuries, but no serious financial worries either. I can come and go as I please. My children have grown into professionals with rapidly expanding careers. I have a nice house with a big garden, a dog, and plenty of time to pursue my hobbies and interests. I can buy all the yarn I want, make pincushions and knit booties, and donate them to whoever I want. I have led an engaging, purposeful life, and now I can enjoy the fruits of my labor in retirement. But it has taken me years to reach this point of contentment and peace.
And now that I am finally here, I am grateful for all the experiences that have shaped me along the way and taught me to set aside unfair judgments of others.
This was written by our contributing writer, J.B. Polk.
Image Source: Unsplash, Cameron Stewart
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