Parenting Myth #2: This Is Easier For Everyone Else
Not true. Comparison isn’t clarity—it’s a distortion filter.
Summer doesn’t just stretch our time—it stretches our exposure.
More time at the park, more drop-ins at the pool, more posts from more people parenting in real time.
More visibility into how everyone else seems to be handling it.
Comparison doesn’t need to be loud to be convincing.
Sometimes it slips in as a glance.
A comment.
A pause that makes us wonder if we’re the only one stitching it together with second guesses and cold coffee.
This is the second in a five-part series, The Myths Making Parenting Harder Than It Has to Be. And this one might be the most persuasive—the one that shows up as motivation, but quietly eats away at our confidence:
Why does it feel like I’m missing a manual everyone else got?
It doesn’t show up as a belief.
It shows up as a hunch.
It’s seeing someone breeze through a tantrum we barely survived. Or laughing at the mess that nearly broke us just hours before. Or the hit of shame when their lunch looks homemade, and ours came from the gas station.
We’re not exactly jealous. But we start to wonder:
Is this easier for them?
Am I missing something?
Sometimes, the comparison doesn’t even involve other people. It stems from how we were raised. Or how our partner parents. Or the version of ourselves we thought we’d be by now.
These aren’t just passing thoughts—they’re private scorecards.
And they shape how we interpret every hard moment, often without realizing it.
It’s not just what we see. It’s what we make it mean.
That they’re built for this, and we’re not.
That their ease is evidence they’re wired for this work—and our struggle is proof we’re doing it wrong.
That whatever they’re doing must be more right, more sustainable, more aligned with what a “good parent” looks like.
That’s the heart of the myth: that other people have figured something out that we haven’t. Not just routines or tactics, but something foundational. Some secret insight that makes parenting smoother, lighter, more intuitive.
And it doesn’t feel like self-doubt.
It feels like logic.
We’re not inventing the story—we’re mistaking the trailer for the whole movie.
But those moments don’t show the mess that came before—or the fallout after.
We don’t see the emotional budgets behind their calm. The tradeoffs they’re navigating. The nights they broke down in the laundry room, then showed up the next morning like nothing cracked.
The myth doesn’t just lie about other people.
It lies about what parenting should look like if you’re doing it well.
It says good parents don’t flinch.
That confidence comes standard.
And that if we’re struggling, we’re unfit for the position.
That’s what makes this myth dangerous.
It doesn’t push us to grow—it pushes us to mask. To hide the parts of parenting that feel frayed or loud or vulnerable. Not because we’re ashamed of our child, but because we’re ashamed of our struggle.
Proximity amplifies pressure.
When comparison comes from someone we know—a sibling, a friend, a neighbor—it cuts deeper. Their lives feel more accessible. Their choices feel more relevant. It’s not some influencer in a podcast studio handing out tips. It’s someone whose couch we’ve sat on. Whose kids play with ours. Whose approval we might secretly crave.
And then there’s the added layer. Technology has collapsed the distance between our private lives and everyone else’s polished moments.
We’re not just parenting in community—we’re parenting on display.
And even when we know better, the constant exposure makes it harder to trust our own assessment. It turns every moment into a potential point of comparison, every scroll a subtle invitation to feel behind.
We start comparing our insides to their outsides.
Our real-time chaos to their filtered calm.
And without realizing, we start playing a game we don’t remember joining, but still feel like we’re losing.
And beneath that loop is often a harder fear: What if the way I’m doing it is actually hurting my kid? That’s what stings most. It’s not just that someone else is thriving—it’s that we’re now convinced we’re not.
So, how do we cut this myth down to size?
We get honest about how little we actually know about anyone else’s parenting life.
Not out of cynicism, but humility.
The mom with the color-coded calendar might be drowning in decision fatigue.
The dad who never raises his voice might feel invisible in his own home.
The friend with the cooperative toddler may have inherited that temperament, not trained it.
And even when someone is doing it beautifully, so what?
That doesn’t subtract from what we’re building. It doesn’t mean we’re behind. It just means their path isn’t ours.
This isn’t about lowering the bar. It’s about shifting the metric.
Instead of asking: Am I doing it as well as they are?
Ask: Is what I’m doing working for this child, in this house, right now?
That’s not a cop-out. It’s a re-centering. It puts the focus where it belongs—on presence, not pressure. On relationship, not reputation.
Most of the people we’re comparing ourselves to? They’re comparing themselves, too.
Not because we’re all insecure, but because parenting is both deeply personal and relentlessly public.
So the next time we wonder if we’re doing it wrong, it’s worth pausing to ask: Compared to what? To who? To which tiny slice of someone else’s reality? If we saw the whole picture—if we heard their doubts the way we hear our own—we might stop measuring ourselves against a story that was never complete to begin with.
That’s not inadequate parenting.
That’s parenting from the inside out.
This is part two of a five-part series: The Myths Making Parenting Harder Than It Has to Be.
Next up: Why do I feel like I’m in crisis… when my kid loses their crayon? Because sometimes, parenting triggers our panic, not perspective.
Other Parenting Myths:
I spend a lot of time talking with my students about comparison. High schoolers are incredibly vulnerable during college admissions; it's natural for them to feel like they come up short when they hear about who got in where. Comparison truly is the thief of joy. We often only see one person's 'win' or 'shiny presentation,' but the full context—their journey, their struggles, their unique situation—is almost always invisible to us.
Thank you for this 🙏🏻 I actually have a timer in phone that goes off every day that says “you’re not perfect and it’s okay!”