Tonight, I find myself in a familiar yet unsettling position—I couldn’t put my oldest to bed. The thought of him starting school tomorrow, facing the world without me, brought tears to my eyes. So, I swapped bedtime duties with his father.
Typically, I scroll past online posts from moms shedding tears over their firstborns heading off to school, thinking, “Not me” and “If only those mothers would let go!” But here I am, hiding in his sister’s room as his dad tucks him in, feeling like an emotional mess. You see, he was my first teacher. Among all my little ones, this child has witnessed all my parenting milestones. We’ve shared laughter, tears, and confronted some significant challenges together.
I grew up in a tumultuous environment. It’s something I can now articulate without fear or anxiety, having spent years walking on eggshells around my mother and her unpredictable behavior. I remember engaging in “rage cleaning,” desperately trying to make the house spotless before she returned home, praying it would be enough to prevent an outburst.
Yelling was often accompanied by physical punishment, and to this day, the sound of drawers rattling triggers memories of where the wooden spoons were stored and how they were used against me. I often locked myself in the bathroom just to escape her rage. I swore I wouldn’t inherit those traits; I would be a perfect parent.
Standing over my son’s bed, I reminisce about his first smiles, laughter, and words. Yet, I also recall my own moments of anger—the small incident that ignited a fire within me, leaving me shocked and filled with regret. I can genuinely say that while I felt anger, it never manifested in the same way it did with my mother. I never crossed that line into abuse, but the rage was there, lurking beneath the surface, like a wild animal ready to pounce. On many occasions, I found myself locking the bathroom door, fearful of what might escape and harm my child.
Where did this turmoil come from? I knew the answer and felt deep shame. These aren’t the stories shared among mothers during playdates—no one talks about the first time they had to scream into a pillow to avoid losing control. I was meant to be better than this.
Even today, it remains a struggle. But I made a conscious choice. My circumstances differ from my mother’s; I have a supportive partner and friends who stand by me. More importantly, I chose to prioritize my child over my pride and that nagging voice that insists I can handle everything solo. I refuse to raise a child in fear as I was raised, where every movement was a potential trigger for anxiety and dread. Thankfully, I have fostered a nurturing environment, unlike the one I grew up in.
I’ve worked hard to reach this point with my now six-year-old. His siblings have never faced more than my occasional raised voice or door slam. They haven’t witnessed the tears I shed grappling with my inner struggles. Thanks to the insights from a wise counselor and the unwavering support of my husband, I’ve learned to manage my anger. I take deep breaths instead of lashing out, I sing rather than shout, and I repeat soothing mantras until I find my calm. Most importantly, I confronted my fears—those childhood shadows that morphed into anger—and once I addressed them, I could see clearly again. Minor annoyances may arise, but they no longer trigger rage.
This is why I find myself in tears. My son is my mirror, my reflection, and at times, my little doppelgänger with his vibrant, impulsive spirit. He has taught me so much. I thought I had buried the nightmares of my past. But parenthood has a way of unearthing the very demons you believed you had left behind, revealing them through the child you nurtured for nine months.
I cry, grateful for the lessons he has imparted, yet I still grapple with guilt. I know I will always carry that weight. I’ve stumbled and struggled with anger, but I’m hopeful that the joyful moments we share far outweigh the dark times I’ve navigated.
I choose to openly discuss my anger because silence only breeds more negativity. We must confront these issues if we want to break the cycle of fear for the next generation. If we don’t share these struggles during playdates or moms’ nights out, when will we? The friends who listen to my “anger confessions” are crucial to my journey, holding me accountable and supporting me.
We cannot allow our children to grow up walking on eggshells. I reject that notion, and I hope to inspire others to do the same.
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Summary
This article reflects on the journey of confronting parental rage and breaking the cycle of fear passed down from previous generations. The author shares personal experiences of grappling with anger and fear while emphasizing the importance of open discussions among mothers to foster healthier environments for their children.
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