My back-to-school anxiety wasn't about my kids. It was the other moms

As the summer drew to a close, I felt the usual anxiety rise up inside me. And it wasn’t just because of the whirlwind of back-to-school duties I’d now have to complete. It was because I’d be around those have-it-all-together perfect mom types.

I’d been free of them for two glorious months, and it was heaven.

I knew I shouldn’t judge them. It was hard enough being judged by society for everything we did: working, not working, helicopter, free-range — our every move evaluated with such intensity. It was maddening. I hated myself for resenting them. But I did.

It wasn’t just their sideways glances and passive-aggressive comments directed at me because I’d missed a school email about pajama day or a donation for the PTA that made me feel like I was failing as a mother. Nor the times I’d run into them at the bus stop with their sparkling white teeth holding a container of cut-up fruits for the teacher’s breakfast, flanked by their kids in matching outfits, their hair done like they just stepped out of a salon.

No, it was their very existence. The way they made it look so easy, so natural, so right. While I struggled to do it all — to be a good mother, wife, daughter, friend … but kept falling short of every single one. I couldn’t seem to do anything the way I thought I should.

I savored those summer days where I didn’t have to walk into school with my hair in its usual messy bun and Target yoga pants I’d never used for actual yoga, only to run into one of them carrying homemade gluten and nut-free vegan cupcakes for my son’s fourth grade class. And instead of being grateful for her effort and happy my son had a classmate whose mom cared about his class, I resented her, stewing in my own feelings of inadequacy.

As the days to the start of school crept closer, my panic set in. I knew I’d have to shake myself out of my schedule-free daze and deal with my to-do list, which was getting longer than a CVS receipt. And my inbox, which was filling up each day with more forms, notes, reminders and obligations.

Despite my efforts to will it not to, the first day of school inevitably arrived. And as much as I tried to prepare for the stress and stave off my insecurities, they still came flooding back.

I rushed the kids out of bed and hustled them to the bus stop. That’s when I saw the first one. She was standing there in her full glory, looking fresh and ready, with her kids by her side. I smiled and waved, trying my best to push down the green monster raging inside me. She had everything organized and was happy to chat with me about it.

“Hey, how was your summer? By the way, I signed up to be class mom for our kids’ class. Have you signed up for any of the volunteer stuff yet?” she asked.

“Umm, not … yet. I’ll have to take a look,” I said, as I noticed that my kids were chasing each other up and down the sidewalk. “Guys, stop. The bus is almost here,” I said through clenched teeth, embarrassed that they weren’t as well behaved as her children, who were quietly standing by her side.

She shared that her son and daughter had been reading high school level books for fun and doing math problems during dinner. I’m pretty sure my kids hadn’t done a single math problem the whole summer.

I forced a smile as I tried to push down the bile rising in my throat. As I looked at her kids’ faces and their adorable new outfits with equally sweet backpacks, she’s a good  mom, you’re a bad mom, kept swirling in my head.

Watching her put her arm around her daughter as she looked down the street to see where the bus was, I thought back to our morning. I’d woken up later than I’d planned, yelled up the stairs for the kids to get ready, then stuffed string cheese, crackers and might-have-expired granola bars into their banged-up lunch boxes. Once they finally got downstairs with their mismatched outfits, I rushed them out the door, desperately hoping we wouldn’t miss the bus.

When it finally came, Good Mom bent down, brushed a stray hair behind her daughter’s ear and tightened her son’s shoelace before hugging and kissing them both goodbye. Distracted by the picture-perfect scene, I missed my own kids getting on the bus. No hug, no kiss, no tightening of shoelaces. Just the smoke from the exhaust as the bus left.

Good Mom and I stood and waved to our kids as we watched the bus get smaller down the tree-lined road. Then she bid me farewell as she dashed off to her SoulCycle class in a spanking new matching Lululemon outfit. I waved, boiling inside, hating myself for being so jealous of her … everything.

After the parents dispersed, I sat on the worn wooden bench under the maple tree, my body still buzzing with the adrenaline of the first morning routine and my bad mom baggage.

Looking down the empty street, with only the rumbling of an engine in the distance and the chirping of birds overhead, something inside of me snapped. I slumped over, holding my head in my hands as a sound came out of my mouth I didn’t recognize. It was like a desperate pain leaving my body, a combination of a cry and a whimper. I felt tears filling my eyes.

What are you doing, I thought. Why do I let myself get twisted up in the senseless comparisons year after year? Why do side glances of other moms and their seemingly perfect parenting break me so easily? 

“Stop it.” The words came tumbling out. I said them again, this time louder. “Stop it!” I could hear my breath going in and out of my nose as I looked around to make sure I was still alone.

My body felt like an empty sack, worn and depleted. Stop doing to yourself and to those other moms what society does to so many mothers, I told myself. Judging, comparing, scrutinizing. It’s none of your business what they do or don’t do. You don’t know their life, their pain, their stories. You have no idea what they’re going through behind those shiny surfaces.

Then it hit me, like a hard snowball to the face. Instead of thinking about my kids, I’d spent the entire morning twisted up in my own dark self-doubts. I’d lost those precious moments with them — the excitement of the first day of school, their joy as they ran around with each other, their scramble to find their favorite seats when they got on the bus.

Did they look at me through the window to give me a toothy smile? I was so distracted by my obsession with another woman’s life that I missed my own children’s sweet faces as they left me to go out into the world. And this wasn’t the only moment I’d lost. If I was being honest, I’d wasted countless hours, days and weeks comparing myself to other moms, hate-scrolling through snapshots of their seemingly happy lives on social media, and being hurt by slights that shouldn’t have taken my attention away from my family.

As I watched the leaves swaying with the light morning gust, tears rolled down my face as my sorrow rose inside me.

I said it one more time, but now in a whisper. “Stop it.”

Walking home in my pajama pants and stretched out T-shirt, I felt a heaviness in my chest and a mountain of regret I didn’t know how to digest.

Then as soon as I opened the front door and saw the line of little shoes tattered from running around in parks and playgrounds, I knew things would have to change.

So, I made myself a promise. That I would find a way to be kinder to myself and other women as we navigated this complicated, overwhelming and beautiful thing called motherhood. That no matter how hard things got, I’d fight against my feelings of inadequacy and not-good-enoughness, and instead of giving in to those doubts, I’d fill those moments with grace, for myself and others.

I can’t say that I’ve kept that promise every day, but I have kept it more days than not. And that’s something good. Something that’s helped me find peace, gratitude and love as I continue to navigate the incredible privilege of being a mother.

This article was originally published on TODAY.com