Food Poisoning and Self-Compassion

I had an early afternoon commitment in DC this week, and I was looking forward to the program. I also love when I can leave town in the morning and be back home by bedtime. They’re tiring, but nice.

I grabbed breakfast at Penn Station before hopping on the Amtrak. I enjoyed my ride to DC. And I hopped in my Lyft. Pretty breezy. I’ve done this dozens of times.

What I haven’t done before is to leave my phone in the car. The driver had already left by the time I realized what happened. I spent the next few hours trying to track it down. It kind of sucked the fun out of the event.

After finishing, a friend offered to help me track it down. We finally got in touch with the Lyft driver. He was about half an hour away but said he would come meet us. Such a nice guy. He totally didn’t have to do that. When we finally met up just outside of Union Station, he was surprised when I offered him a tip. He really was doing it from the kindness of his heart.

I met another friend at Union Station after that, a friend who I hadn’t seen for about 10 years. We caught up, and she told me about her young daughter, who was enduring real life challenges. I felt so sad for her and her family. It made my whole phone situation seem so silly. My problem was so small in comparison.

As I boarded my train to return to NYC, I started to feel a bit nauseous. I don’t really get sick often, and I’m overly faithful in my immune system. I tried to ignore it, but the longer the train ride went on, the more miserable I felt. My head was hurting, and I was so tired, and I was starting to feel really hot.

I kept thinking about my friend and her daughter, and honing in on my reflection: My problem was so small in comparison. I pushed down my feelings and fought through the ride.

We arrived at Penn Station around 11pm, and I decided to walk to the subway. I was still feeling hot, and some cold January air might ease my pain. I walked, slower than usual, and passed by St. Francis of Assisi.

The church had people sleeping all around it, even in the cold. I made eye contact with a homeless woman sitting on the stairs. She smiled, raised her hand to her forehead, and saluted to me. I smiled back and said hello.

Again, I felt the sting of my selfishness. If she could smile and be kind in her difficult circumstances, couldn’t I at least get over my current state of not feeling well? I now had a little pep in my step, feeling cooler by the air and cooler from this interaction.

The rest of my walk to the subway was a breeze. I got to the 6 train station at 33rd St, feeling better. I sat down on a bench waiting for the train. A woman and her husband came next to me. She was feeling ill and told her husband that she felt like throwing up. She said it a few more times. Now, I felt nauseous again. I got up and moved, but it didn’t help that much. The misery hit me again.

I got home soon after. I showered and hopped into bed, just wanting the night to be over. After a few hours, though, I woke up, not feeling great. I went to the bathroom and vomited in a way that I didn’t know was humanly possible. I’ll spare you the details but it was violent and intense and horrible. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

I got back in the shower, hoping that I had just gone through the worst of it. And as I stood there with the hot water stinging my back, I thought again of those moments from that day: the homeless woman saluting me, my friend sharing about her daughter, the Lyft driver bringing me my phone.

I thought about how guilty I felt letting myself feel miserable because my difficulty felt comparatively small. And now, knowing that I was actually fighting some sort of physical ailment, I felt like I was at least justified in my pain.

Before, I was trying to deny my own feelings in order to honor others. I was comparing my challenges to theirs, and then minimizing my own as insignificant. I did this to the point that I was trying to suppress or ignore my own unease.

But now, in the shower, I had a realization that hadn’t occurred to me earlier in the day but seemed obvious once it crossed my mind: What if both could be true? What if other people’s suffering is real and so is my own? What if we each have our own challenges, and they’re all worth taking seriously?

This isn’t the first time I’ve had to learn this lesson, and it probably won’t be the last. For whatever reason, I tend to dismiss my own feelings in order to account for others. Maybe it’s part of Punjabi culture. Maybe it’s part of how I’ve been racialized in this country. Maybe it’s gendered. Maybe it’s my attempt to wrestle with Sikh teachings on humility. Maybe it’s all of the above, and more.

Whatever the reasons are, I wanted to share this experience with the hope that it helps bring some perspective and balance. It’s so easy to fall into the trap of comparative suffering, and then fall into a place of not taking seriously the difficulties that come our way. It’s also easy to shut out the world and only focus on our own lives and the challenges we each face.

Like with many things in life, I think the best approach is to balance the two, honoring the challenges that everyone faces, including ourselves. I’ll leave you with the words of Jack Kornfield, which have been a powerful reminder for me: “If your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete.”