What We Can't See: You Never Know What Someone Is Going Through

Today, I was that parent.

You know the one. The parent hauling a screaming child through a public place while trying to keep everyone safe, hold onto some shred of dignity, and quietly wonder if this is how the witness protection program starts.

My toddler was washing her hands in a public restroom and having the absolute time of her life. Water flowing. Hands washed. More hands washed. Then those same hands washed again, for good measure.

The problem? Another little boy needed the sink.

When I told her it was time to stop, she reacted as though I had personally canceled Christmas. And friends, this was not a little protest — this was a full-body, deeply committed, emotionally invested meltdown.

So I picked her up and carried her out while she screamed. And screamed. And screamed some more.

Ten minutes isn't long when you're watching a movie, or scrolling your phone, or waiting for coffee. But ten minutes carrying a screaming toddler through a public place feels roughly the length of a presidential administration.

Nothing helped. Not comforting, not distracting, not holding, not talking, not waiting. Nothing.

The whole time, that familiar parental vulnerability set in — the awareness that people are watching, the worry that someone is judging, the quiet fear that they think my child is spoiled or difficult, or that I'm somehow doing this all wrong.

Except this story took a turn.

The Detail Nobody Else Would Have Seen

Because I happened to be at a medical facility.

One of the professionals there started asking questions. What medication was she taking for her ear infection? When did the behavior start? Had anything changed recently?

Then they said something that stopped me where I stood: the amoxicillin she'd been taking for the infection might be contributing to all of this. More specifically, they suspected a sensitivity to the dye in the medication.

Suddenly, nine days of unusually intense emotional reactions made a whole lot more sense.

Here's the thing. If I'd been anywhere else today, nobody would have known that.

People would have seen a screaming toddler. They wouldn't have seen the medication. They wouldn't have seen the side effects, or the exhausted parents trying to figure out why their sweet kid suddenly seemed like a stranger.

They would have seen ten minutes. Not the whole story.

Because You Never Know What Someone Is Going Through

We see a child melting down in Target and think we understand what's happening. We see a teenager acting out and assume we know their character. We watch an adult lose their patience, a stranger cry in public, an elderly person raise their voice — and our brains instantly fill in the blanks with stories we have no way to verify.

The truth is, most of us are walking around carrying chapters other people can't see. Illness. Grief. Stress. Medication reactions. Exhaustion. Heartbreak. Fear. Loss. Worries nobody says out loud. You never know what someone is going through in the ten minutes you happen to witness.

Today, I got lucky. I was surrounded by kind people — people who offered compassion instead of judgment, grace instead of side-eyes. People who understood that sometimes behavior is communication, even when we don't yet understand the message.

One woman smiled at me. The doctor reassured me, and when I thanked her and everyone there for being so kind, she said of course — and that I was doing a great job as a mom, and that my kid wasn't the first to have a meltdown and certainly wouldn't be the last. Nobody made me feel like a bad parent. Nobody labeled my child. Nobody rolled their eyes. They simply gave us grace.

And I've been thinking ever since about how different the world would feel if more of us offered that same grace to each other.

Not because every behavior should be excused. Not because accountability doesn't matter. But because most of the time, we genuinely don't know what someone else is carrying.

The child having a meltdown. The teenager slamming the door. The parent barely holding it together. The stranger who seems impatient. The elderly person who suddenly raises their voice.

We see a moment. God sees the whole story.

Today reminded me that what shows up on the surface is rarely the full picture. And sometimes the kindest thing we can do is pause before we judge — and leave room for the possibility that there's far more happening than we know.

Because there usually is.

Tomorrow is a new day filled with hope and possibilities. ❤️

About the Author | Day 169

I'm a soul-led coach, writer, mother, and recovering perfectionist, currently navigating motherhood, big transitions, grief, and the slow, unglamorous work of nervous system healing. Mostly, I'm learning the same lesson on repeat: compassion gets a whole lot easier when we remember how little we actually know about what other people are carrying.

For 169 days straight, I've shown up here — through travel chaos, temporary living, toddler illnesses, healing setbacks, work stress, and countless reminders that life is almost always more human and more nuanced than it first appears.

I write for the overthinkers, the healing hearts, the exhausted caregivers, the tired parents, and anyone carrying an invisible burden while quietly doing their best. I believe healing is rarely linear. I believe most people are fighting battles we can't see. I believe grace and accountability can coexist. And I believe some of the most important lessons arrive disguised as ordinary moments we never expected to remember.

If this resonated, share it with a parent who needs encouragement, someone in a hard season, or anyone who could use the reminder that what we see on the surface is almost never the whole story. ❤️