My husband’s grandfather passed away today. Needless to say, this is a monumental loss for our family, as this man was one of the most giving, charming, loveable people I’ve ever met. I’ll share more about him in a separate post but first, you have to hear about how today unfolded.

Last night I landed here in San Francisco at 11:30 p.m. which was 2:30 a.m. to my East Coast body. I arrived at my hotel not long after midnight, and because there was a global conference in town, the hotel where I had been booked was… less than ideal. Waaaay less than ideal. Like, prostitutes in the lobby, don’t feel safe walking in the front door kind of less-than-ideal. The room was $550 per night, and basically was the only room left in the city under $1,000.

Being that it was so late, I tried to shrug off the scantily clad women in the hotel lobby and the odd smells of mothballs and garlic butter that were floating through the faded hallways. I got to my room, tossed my suitcase to the side, and fell into bed. Yes, still in my clothes.

Two hours later, my phone rang.

“Daddy Jim died.” My sleepy husband’s voice was shaky and solemn. I honestly don’t remember much of what we discussed after that because I immediately went into weird math mode. You know that mode, where your brain starts piecing together scenarios similar to those in high school math problems. Things like, “If I’m in San Francisco and have a meeting here tomorrow morning, and the funeral is in Texas on Wednesday, and my husband and kids are going to fly to Texas from Virginia, how many boxes of raisins should I tell my husband to pack for my three year old to bring on the plane?”

By 5 a.m., I was sitting upright in the hotel bed with my MacBook in my lap, emailing my co-workers, rearranging travel and checking in with family members to see what the next steps were.

That’s when it happened. Something out of the corner of my eye on my bed moved. It was a teeny, tiny bug crawling across the crisp white duvet.

I flicked it away and continued working.

Then I saw another one.

Hmm. For fun, let’s Google what bedbugs look like.

And there it was. The little bugs on my screen were the very same ones that were in my bed. In what felt like one swift movement, I closed my laptop, snapped a few pictures of the uninvited guests, grabbed my unopened suitcase and fled to the lobby. I informed the front desk manager that I was checking out and that there were bugs in my bed. He began yelling at me saying I was lying, and that I would still have to pay for the full stay that my company had booked. I pulled up the photos on my phone of the bugs, gave him a quick peek, handed him my business card and asked him to have the hotel manager call me.

While my wonderful co-workers worked to find a different hotel arrangement for me, I called an Uber. I had a meeting in two hours and still had to pick up printouts at the local FedEx. I spotted my Uber driver as he drove past me no less than three times, all while I frantically waved at him from the curb. He finally called me, passing me a fourth time, and proceeded to yell at me that I should make myself easier to find next time.

That’s when I lost it. Daddy Jim was dead. For all I knew, I was infested with bedbugs. I hadn’t slept or showered or changed clothes. And the world was yelling at me. I started crying. And I’m NOT a crier. Ever. I blubbered into the phone to the startled Uber driver about all that had happened to me that morning, hung up, cancelled the ride, and cried on the curb for a few minutes.

I took a deep breath, called another Uber who picked me up, took me to FedEx for my printouts, and then to my new hotel without incident. Thank goodness. My room wasn’t ready yet, so all the front desk could do was send me to the public ladies room in the lobby where I proceeded to try and make myself presentable for my morning meetings.

As I flat-ironed my hair and brushed my teeth while puzzled hotel guests washed their hands next to me, it occurred to me how funny the whole thing was.

You see, I get a lot of comments about being a working mom, and I’m sure you do too. About how glamorous it must be, traveling all over. I actually think an elder’s wife at church once used the words “flitting about” to describe where I had been the previous week. Staying in nice hotels. Seeing different cities. I looked in the oversized hotel mirror at my bleary-eyed self, and I couldn’t help but chuckle.

We seem to have this “grass is greener” mentality about other mothers and women, don’t we? We see moms different from us and believe that they have it all together. We believe their lives are just as perfect as their carefully chosen Instagram filters depict them. But behind that thin filter is a woman ironing her button down shirt with her flat iron in a public bathroom while frantically scratching her scalp and Googling “Do I have bedbugs?” It’s all a big disguise. And I believe we do each other a serious disservice as mothers if we aren’t honest about how real and sometimes sad and crazy and messy life can be. Life is messy for ALL of us. No one is exempt.

I am currently writing this post from the comfort of a clean, high-rise hotel room. My meetings are over and went surprisingly well. I even snuck in a quick run to the Golden Gate Bridge.

I’m now settling in to write my sweet grandfather-in-law’s obituary. And according to the 132 sources I’ve researched this evening, I am pleased to report I am NOT infested with bedbugs. (Travel tip from the pros: Never set your suitcase near your hotel bed. In the rare chance a bed does have bugs, those bugs will hop right into your suitcase. Thankfully, my suitcase was never opened.)

One of my favorite quotes is the one that says:

“The reason we struggle with insecurity is because we compare our behind-the-scenes with everyone else’s highlight reel.”

The next time you’re tempted to compare someone else’s pretty, Instagram filtered highlight reel to your behind the scenes life, think of me and my bed bugs. Life is messy (and sometimes even buggy). Anyone who tries to tell you different is selling something. Don’t buy it.

-Lauren