If I could go back in time and sit across from the younger version of myself, I think I would be quiet at first. Not because I would not have plenty to say, but because I know her. She is quick to defend her choices, quick to prove she is fine, quick to hide her exhaustion behind a polite smile. She has already learned to nod in agreement while her heart is breaking. She has perfected the art of getting through the day without letting anyone see just how close she is to falling apart.

When the silence grew comfortable, I would begin.

I would tell her that comparison is the thief of joy. It slips in quietly, making her believe that what she has is never enough, that who she is will never quite measure up. It will whisper to her while she scrolls through the highlight reels of other people’s lives or when she catches her reflection next to the mother at the school program who seems more polished, more confident, more certain. If she listens too long, she will miss the beauty of her own story. And when she sets the measuring stick down, she will finally have the freedom to see what truly matters.

And once she sees it, she will begin to understand the difference between a want and a need. Comparison will try to convince her that a bigger house, a newer car, or the body she had before babies are essential. But the truth is simpler. She needs safety. She needs enough food in the pantry to feed her family. She needs someone who sees her for who she is, not just for what she can do. She needs rest, the kind that quiets her mind, not just the kind that drops her body into bed. The rest of it is just noise. And once she knows the difference, she will see that time, unbuyable and unrepeatable, is the most precious thing she has.

That is when she will realize that her children will never remember how perfectly the house was kept. They will remember her presence. They will remember if she looked them in the eyes when they spoke, if she laughed at their silly jokes, if she stopped what she was doing to listen. They will remember the warmth of her voice reading the same bedtime story for the hundredth time, the comfort of her hands on their cheeks, the way her arms pulled them close when the world felt too big. The laundry will wait. The bills will wait. But their voices calling from the other room will not last forever.

If I could tell her all of this, I know she might not believe me right away. She would still have to live it, still have to learn through the long nights and hard days. But maybe, on the days when she feels like she is failing, she would hear my voice in the back of her mind: Comparison will rob you. Your needs are fewer than you think. Your children want you more than they want perfection.

And maybe, just maybe, she would rest her head that night knowing she is already enough.