My husband had been in the kitchen all morning making a princess sparkle pants ponytail glitter star cake for our four-year-old’s birthday party. And while I was having all my conflicting feelings, I could hear his increasingly agitated commentary from the kitchen. It sounded a little bit like this. "Oh no, it’s all—
What the hell, what is even—
Aaaaagggh! It’s disintegrating!!!" I ran in to help.
If *I* am called in to help with a cooking disaster, you know it must be pretty terrible.
And indeed, the cake had proceeded to disintegrate before my husband’s horrified eyes.
Now I am not an expert at icing cakes. (He is.) But I AM an expert at salvaging life from the very jaws of kitchen disasters. I have had a LOT of practice at that. He doesn't have much practice at that at all, because his kitchen projects turn out correctly basically all of the time, which is super annoying but I manage to love him anyway.
So I started spackling with the icing and he covered his eyes at what I was doing to his creation and the whole thing was ridiculous and fraught and so very sticky, and life was clearly fucked seven ways to Sunday and we were all doomed, DOOOOMED, and then suddenly— FINALLY— I remembered something I had said to one of my private clients just this week.
I told her to please have some FUCKING COMPASSION on herself.
This statement tapped me on the shoulder while I was wielding the spatula with much panic.
Except that in that sticky buttercream moment it was clear I didn’t deserve compassion, nah, I needed a humanitarian wake-up-call and better icing skills.
Except of course, as you have already guessed, wise reader, when we think we least deserve compassion is when we most need it.
So I did. I gave compassion to myself, right there in the midst of my terrible privileged first-world problems— just some fucking compassion. And it made me laugh.
And then I remembered something important.
Compassion doesn’t let us off the hook.
It lets us be human. ✨✨✨✨✨✨✨ —>full post