Compassion Still Needs Limits

I am really struggling lately with the balance between having compassion for other people’s pain and feeling completely tapped out by how often my own pain feels invisible.

And that is a hard thing to admit, because I know what it feels like to hurt. I know what it feels like to have your body betray you. I know what it feels like to need someone to care, to listen, to not brush you off. So when my kids do not feel good, when they have cramps, when they are overwhelmed, when they are hurting in whatever way they are hurting, I want to be compassionate. I want to be gentle. I want them to know their pain matters to me.

But I am also in pain.

A lot.

And sometimes it feels like everyone wants me to keep doing and doing and doing, even after I have said I am tapped out. Even after I have said I cannot. Even after my body has already been screaming at me all day. There are moments where I feel like I am begging to be heard, not because I do not care about anyone else, but because I am trying so hard not to completely disappear under everything being asked of me.

That is where it gets complicated. Because I do not ever want my kids to feel like they are a burden to me. They are not. I love them more than anything. I want to show up for them. I want to help them through hard things. I want them to feel safe coming to me when they hurt.

But I also need them to learn that Mom is a person too.

Mom’s pain counts too.

Mom’s limits are real too.

Mom saying “I cannot right now” does not mean “I do not love you.” It means I am at the edge of what my body and mind can carry in that moment. It means I am trying to love you without completely destroying myself in the process.

And honestly, that part breaks my heart.

Because sometimes when I set a limit, it feels like I am pushing them away. When really, I am trying to love them through it. I am trying to teach them compassion without teaching them that love means one person has to drain themselves completely dry. I am trying to show them that we can care about each other’s pain at the same time. Their discomfort matters. Their feelings matter. Their needs matter.

But so do mine.

That is the part I think chronic illness makes so messy. Your pain becomes so constant that people almost stop seeing it. It turns into background noise. It becomes “normal” because it is always there. But just because I have learned how to function through pain does not mean it is not costing me. Just because I am still getting up, still driving, still making food, still keeping track of appointments, still answering questions, still trying to be Mom, does not mean I am okay.

Sometimes I am doing all of it while barely holding myself together.

And then I feel guilty. Guilty for being frustrated. Guilty for needing quiet. Guilty for not having more patience. Guilty for not being the version of myself I wish my kids had. Guilty for wondering how to teach empathy without making them feel responsible for my pain.

I do not have that figured out yet.

I am just a mom who loves her kids deeply and is also living in a body that hurts. I am trying to be soft when I can. I am trying to be honest when I need to be. I am trying to remind myself that boundaries are not rejection. Limits are not cruelty. Rest is not selfish. And telling my kids, “I love you, but I cannot do that right now,” is not me failing them.

It is me trying to survive long enough to keep loving them well.

And maybe that is what I need to remember most tonight.

I can care about their pain without pretending mine does not exist.

I can love them through hard moments without letting myself be run completely into the ground.

I can be their mom and still be human.

I can be compassionate and still have limits.

Both can be true.

#MomWithATube