Do Unto Others: Tapping Into Your Compassionate Self

See also: How to wake a sleeping octogenarian

I wouldn’t say I was breaking and entering. Technically, I was supposed to be there. 

With trembling fingers, I punched in the numeric code from my post-it, ending with the pound sign (do the kids call it hashtag these days?). I removed the key from the lockbox and inserted it into the strange lock. The door creaked open into the quiet apartment. My pulse pounded in my ears.

“Hello,” I called into the dark. “Mr. Mindt?”

The tiny living room–one love seat, one coffee table–led to the even smaller kitchen.  A message flashed on the answering machine on the counter.

I gulped and continued down the hall. 

My fears confirmed, I found Mr. Mindt was still in bed, fast asleep, although it was 8am. Snores rattled against the silence. A single glass of water and two hearing aids adorned his nightstand. 

Would anyone know if I left now? 

My job as his new caregiver was to help the 84-year-old bathe, dress, and eat breakfast; personal care tasks was what the job posting had described.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the irony; my own body was un-showered and my teeth felt fuzzy with plaque.

I flicked the light switch. Mr. Mindt snored on.

I didn’t blame him. I could barely get out of bed myself.

Every little task felt overwhelming. My counselor said I needed to do something, anything, to give structure and purpose to my days. I had freshly returned to San Diego, CA after a year of living in Antigua, Guatemala. Unemployed, single, and in my mid-twenties, I spent my days watching reruns of CSI on Netflix and feeling guilty for not enjoying the beach, the weather, my free time. 

I’m not sure Mr. Mindt was what my counselor had in mind.

I’d heard you’re not supposed to wake a sleeping baby. What about a sleeping old man?  I wondered before forcing myself closer to his bed. 

“Mr. Mindt,” I whispered. The snoring increased. 

Remembering the hearing aids, I upped my volume.  “Mr. Mindt!” 

Minutes passed as I stared at his sleeping body and wafted in the scent of Icy Hot and Alka Seltzer before I accepted my fate: I would have to touch him.

I started with a small poke on his shoulder to no avail. In case it's not obvious, I’m the kind of person who gives one light knock on a friend’s door before deciding they’re not around and going home. I’m not a doorbell ringer or pound-until-they-open kinda gal. At parties, I prefer The Irish Goodbye. 

But, more importantly, I’m not a quitter. 

Mr. Mindt was just too cozy; the blanket would have to go. With one hand, I grabbed his duvet and pulled back the corner; with the other hand I shook his shoulder as violently as my 5 foot frame could muster. 

Removing the blanket exposed his full frame, a detail I hadn’t thoroughly considered. I exhaled audibly and thanked God for pajamas (he was wearing a modest and predictable plaid, if you’d like to know).

He spluttered and shifted upright against the headboard, while I recoiled. I offered the hearing aids from the side table and waited as he nestled them into his gray-tufted ears. 

“Hi Mr. Mindt, I’m Aly. I’m here to take care of you.” 

***

For the next hour, I helped Mr. Mindt shower (standing just outside the shower curtain in case he fell), get dressed (he needed someone to stabilize him while he pulled up his pant legs and to fasten his buttons), and eat breakfast (shredded wheat with Lactaid and a glass of orange juice).

When he checked his reflection in the mirror–smoothed hair, fresh aftershave, a pressed shirt under his suspenders (even though he had nowhere to be on a Wednesday at 9am)--he smiled back at himself. 

We both beamed with pride. 

After I punched the code back into the lockbox to deposit the key, I self-consciously tugged at my greasy hair and ran my tongue over my fuzzy teeth. 

That night, for the first time in a week, I showered and brushed my own teeth. When I checked my reflection in the mirror, in spite of myself, I smiled back. 

***

I wanted to ease into this series on self-compassion by acknowledging that often it’s easier to be compassionate and caring with others than ourselves. This is normal. This is not a fatal flaw. 

I can’t even begin to tell you the number of times people have said to me, “You would never speak to a friend like that,” about my own inner dialogue. I know they mean well, but it always feels like a reprimand. My cheeks burn and shame swirls.

Trust me, I’m hyper aware of this discrepancy. I know I want to be kinder to myself. I know I want to change. Focusing on all of the ways I’m not kind to myself only amplifies the shame. If I can show up compassionately for others, I should be able to show up compassionately for myself. Right? Right?

Even while writing this post on self-compassion, I’ve felt the roar of self-criticism: it’s taking too long, I should be spending time with my kids instead, I could be doing ____ or ____ or ____. 

And then after a beat, I should know better than to criticize myself. I should show myself compassion while I write. 

There’s that should again. 

I’ll say it again for myself: Sometimes when it’s hard to be kind to yourself, it can help to focus on how you care for others. 

So I’m going to take my own advice and go take care of my kids. I’m going to make them their pb&js with the crust cut off and triangle grilled cheeses and tomato soup. I’m going to focus on connecting with them and doing things they love. 

And maybe, I’ll feel a little more ready to care for myself next. 

Your self-compassion prompt: 

This week, I invite you to notice how you care for others, how you might show up with both tenderness and compassion, acceptance and encouragement for friends, family, and even strangers. 

I’d love for you to tell me in the comments: are there any small ways you show up for others that you may be able to grow inward? 

I’m also curious if you prickle at the suggestion to treat yourself like you would a friend?

Have a great week, friends!