Around this time last year I found the wings of a Luna moth. Although it was so natural to awe at the strikingly large and beautiful wings, I couldn’t ignore the subtle ache that ran through me as I held them in my hands. The American moon moth is rarely seen by humans; they only come out at night, and their adult lives are extremely brief (only about seven days). This stunning creature is truly beautiful and truly rare and there I stood, actually holding one in the palms of my hands…but it was in pieces. Lifeless.

It’s said that the Luna moth signifies new beginnings; a continuing quest for truth and knowledge. I guess most of my life I’ve been looking for new beginnings. I learned early on that I wasn’t like everyone else, and that I didn’t fit neatly into anyone’s expectations. So I found myself constantly comparing, repeatedly trying to change, to figure out where I fit into the worlds that collided around me.

Now I’m a mother of four, and I still find myself comparing, continuously second-guessing, waiting for the next new beginning to cancel out what I did today, or yesterday, or last year…

This time of year–as schools are drawing to a close–I’ve found myself unable to check all of the boxes that the other mamas in my life are checking. Don’t get me wrong: my kids are just amazing. They are wonderfully unique in their personalities, their physical features, their joys and their dreams and their struggles. Each one of them sees the world around them so very differently. I have a son who is not neurotypical, but insanely intelligent; a daughter who is wildly creative, yet her social anxiety can get so crippling it’s hard for her to even be around family sometimes. I have an artistic, free-thinking daughter who sees beauty everywhere, and values all life down to the smallest bug. I have a son that gets so overwhelmed with joy that he squeals and gives bear hugs even though he is over six feet tall. A son that hates being the center of attention, yet is a continuous source of laughter for everyone he meets. And because of their unique personalities and anxieties and neurotypes, my kids aren’t following “typical” paths right now. And being a compulsive comparer, I feel as if I’m failing these beautiful children by not pushing them harder to have all of the typical experiences, to win all the awards, go to all the dances, hit all the teenage milestones like jobs and driving and dating.

But of course, I am no typical mama. I’m a mess. Medicated since high school, I wander most days in an exhausted haze, trying to grab at small moments of joy or clarity, and then wanting to retreat completely into the dark before I break.

My kids have been raised by a mama who often just can’t. I have broken down in front of them so many times that I fear I’m not teaching them to be strong….and they need to be. God, they need to be. This world and its people can be so dismissive and unwelcoming towards the ones who are different. Most of them will give up on you. Or forget about you. Or never really see you at all. I’ve been there. I’ve felt it.

And so I’m left here, staring down at these gorgeous wings from a stunning, rare beauty laying lifeless in my palms. In pieces.

But here’s the thing I desperately need to remember: I can’t keep comparing myself to other people. Our stories are not the same. And I can’t compare my kids to other kids. They are navigating the world in their own unique ways, and I have the absolute gift of helping them find their way through a space that is—quite honestly—not very forgiving. I’ve gotten a lot of stuff wrong as I’ve been struggling to figure this all out, but if there’s one thing my kids learn from me, I hope they know that they are seen, and that they are fiercely loved. I might not ever completely understand where they’re coming from or what they’re thinking or how they feel, but I hope they know that I try. With everything I have, I try.

I’ve spent my entire life comparing; hoping to blend in, or to stand out, or to measure up. And every time I feel my life is ugly, or not worth the struggle, God reminds me that He makes beautiful things out of the dust. And when I stop comparing, and I look at each of my babies for who they are—exactly as they were created to be—I am overwhelmed. They are simply stunning.

So to everyone out there who is not typical—if you feel like you are fighting every day just to be seen—or if you’ve already retreated because it just doesn’t feel worth it anymore, know this: There are people to whom you will always be a disappointment, because you don’t look like their expectations of you. But you are NOT disappointing, lifeless fragments. You are the elusive, stunningly beautiful Moon Moth.

And even if no one else in this world ever catches a true glimpse of exotic, queer, nonconformist you—I see you. And your Creator sees you. Every bit of you. He cradles you in His palms—especially in those moments when you feel unseen, unloved, and broken—and He whispers to all of your shattered pieces while He patiently knits you back together: “I love you, exactly as you are.”