When Better Still Hurts

When Better Still Hurts

This happened last night. I’m still not over the feelings. It’s taken me all day to find the words to write this.

There are nights that don’t end when you get home. This was one of them — a night that spilled into the next day, lingering in my body long after everyone was asleep. They follow you into the quiet, into the replaying, into the questions you didn’t have the energy to answer out loud.

This is one of those nights.

We arrived late — not dramatically, just life-late. It was a daycare Christmas party, thoughtfully put together by educators who were doing the absolute best they could in a space filled with children, families, excitement, and noise. Shoes on the wrong feet, kids excited, noise already in the air. It was meant to be a short visit. A simple one. Something normal.

But crowded spaces, overlapping needs, and big emotions don’t care about intentions.

Within minutes, everything felt loud. Too loud.

One child needed food. One needed regulation. One needed supervision. One needed to be found. And I was just one adult.

Time stretched in strange ways — seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like panic. That moment when you realise you don’t know exactly where your child is? It changes something in your body. Your heart doesn’t beat properly for a while after that.

When they were found, there was relief — but not calm. Calm still felt far away.

I made decisions quickly. I moved us away from the noise. I did what I knew would help one child regulate, even though it meant another child’s disappointment came rushing forward instead.

And that’s the part people don’t talk about enough.

Sometimes supporting one child means another child misses out. Not because you don’t care. Not because you didn’t plan. But because you can’t split yourself into four.

There were tears — theirs, and eventually mine. And in that moment, I was reminded that community sometimes shows up quietly. Other parents stepped in to help when hands were needed. One mum let me cry on her shoulder without questions, without judgement — just presence. The kind that come not from drama, but from holding it together for just a little too long. I leaned on someone else’s shoulder for a moment, because mine had already carried enough.

Later, when the house was quiet, the thoughts came.

I thought this year would be better.

And in some ways, it was. Things that once felt impossible were handled. Moments that used to escalate didn’t. Needs were recognised sooner. Safety came first.

But progress doesn’t always look peaceful. Sometimes it looks like leaving early. Sometimes it looks like missing the big moment. Sometimes it looks like surviving.

It’s easy to feel like you failed when the picture doesn’t match the plan. When the concert is missed. When Santa is skipped. When other families seem to move through the same space with less weight on their shoulders.

But here’s what I wish someone had said in that moment — and what I want to say to anyone reading this who has lived a night like it:

You didn’t fail.

You protected. You regulated. You made impossible choices with the information and capacity you had. You carried more than one nervous system at once.

That isn’t weakness. That’s parenting at full stretch.

If you’re holding guilt today, I hope you can set it down — even briefly. Not because it didn’t matter. But because you mattered too.

Some nights aren’t about memories made. They’re about getting everyone home safe.

And that counts more than we give it credit for.

Before I finish, I want to say this clearly: this isn’t a story about blame. The educators worked hard to create something special. The parents who helped didn’t have to — but they did. And that kindness mattered more than they probably realised.

If this sounds like you, I see you.

And one more thing — because this matters.

There isn’t a product that makes moments like this better. Not really. There’s no quick fix, no magic tool, no thing you can buy that suddenly makes everything feel okay again.

Sometimes the closest thing is a big glass of wine, a piece of chocolate, and a quiet moment to yourself — but even those don’t fix it.

What actually helps comes with time. With space. With the realisation that nothing was broken to begin with, so nothing needed fixing.

Some experiences just need to be felt, processed, and slowly set down.

And that’s enough. You’re not alone. And you’re doing better than you think.