The Compliment I Don’t Correct

What people see when they think you have it all together

People say nice things all the time.

“You’re so good with Maya.”
“I don’t know how you stay so calm.”
“You make it look easy.”

I usually laugh and shrug because what else are you supposed to do in the cereal aisle or during a parking lot conversation you didn’t plan to have? I wasn’t exactly offered an alternative life plan. Apparently I look approachable when I’m just trying to remember why I came to the store.

My hands always give me away, twisting together or clutching my purse like it might drift off if I let go. I laugh too quickly. My smile goes awkward before I can stop it.

“Thanks,” I say, already steering the conversation somewhere else. Their weekend. Their kids. The weather. Anything.

I’ve learned to move the spotlight fast. If it stays on me too long, I start wondering if people will notice the cracks.

Earlier that same day, I was staring at an insurance denial and a half-written appeal letter, while a pile of paperwork threatened to become permanent furniture on my desk. Dishes in the sink. Laundry waiting. At least ten pairs of glasses scattered around the house because apparently I’ve decided losing things preemptively is a strategy. Somewhere in the background I’m yelling, “Maya, put some clothes on!”

By the time I run into someone at the store, I’ve already lived three different days in my head.

They see calm while I’m mentally calculating how long until dinner, because routine matters when your kid has Prader-Willi Syndrome. Timing isn’t really optional.

A few months ago I was sitting in a school meeting, surrounded by paperwork and fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look slightly tired. We were going over goals, schedules, and plans. It’s the kind of meeting where everything sounds neat and manageable on paper.

At the end someone smiled and said, “You do such a great job with her.”

I laughed automatically. “Thanks,” I said, stacking papers like that counted as emotional closure.

What I didn’t say was that I spend half my life wondering if I’m doing enough and the other half wondering if I’m doing the wrong things very efficiently.

I don’t usually explain that part in small talk. The truth feels too heavy for the space between frozen foods and checkout lines. There are limits to what you unpack next to a cart return.

People tell me they could never do what I do.

What I almost say is: you haven’t seen me on the days I fall apart. The days I cry in the car or forget why I walked into a room. The days my brain feels like twenty tabs open and none of them are the one I actually need. The days I wish, just for a minute, that things felt easier.

But that’s not parking lot conversation.

So I nod.

I laugh.

I ask about them instead.

Sometimes I wonder which version of me they’re talking about.

The competent one who seems to have it together. The one who keeps everything moving.

The version closest to me is just trying to help her child navigate a world that doesn’t always fit. The version inside my own head changes depending on the hour.

I’m not even sure I know the real one anymore.

Someone says something kind. I smile again. The conversation moves on.

I don’t correct them.

P.S. If you’re curious about Prader-Willi Syndrome (PWS), here’s the short explanation, the one that doesn’t require a medical degree or three cups of coffee. 👇

https://www.pwsausa.org