Tonight, I find myself in a familiar emotional place. I couldn’t put my oldest to bed because the reality of him starting school tomorrow was overwhelming. So, I made the decision to let his father take over that responsibility.
Typically, I scroll past posts about parents shedding tears over their firstborns heading off to school, thinking, “That won’t be me,” and “If only they could let go!” But here I am, tucked away in his sibling’s room while his dad reads him a bedtime story, feeling like an emotional wreck. He has been my first teacher in so many ways, experiencing all my initial parenting milestones. Together, we’ve shared laughter, tears, and faced some heavy challenges.
I grew up in a home rife with abuse. Now, I can articulate that without the anxiety that once accompanied those words—the fear of my mother’s unpredictable behavior that kept me on edge. I remember the “rage cleaning” that defined our household; the frantic efforts to make everything spotless before her arrival, hoping it would prevent an outburst. Yelling often escalated into physical punishment, and the sound of drawers rattling still triggers memories of where wooden spoons were kept and how they were used. I can’t forget the times I locked myself in the bathroom, seeking refuge from her rage.
I was convinced I wouldn’t inherit these destructive traits, that I could be the perfect parent for my children. Yet, standing over my son’s bed, I reflect on his first smiles, words, and giggles. But I cannot ignore my own moments of anger—the small things he did that ignited a fire within me, making me nauseous with guilt and leading to tears afterward.
While I can confidently say that my anger never manifested in the same way it did for my mother, it was still a force I battled within. I can’t count how many times, as an adult, I found myself locking the bathroom door to ensure I didn’t unleash that anger and hurt anyone.
Where did this emotional turmoil originate? I knew the answer, and it filled me with shame. These are not the types of stories shared during casual conversations among parents about baby milestones or sweet moments. Instead, I found myself grappling with the overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. I had planned to do better.
It has been a challenging journey, and it remains so. But I made a conscious choice to be different. My circumstances differ significantly from my mother’s; I have a supportive partner and friends who step in when needed. More importantly, I made a choice to prioritize my child over my own pride and the voice that tells me to handle it all alone. I refused to raise a child in fear, the way I was raised. I wouldn’t allow my children to feel unease or apprehension about my behavior.
I’ve worked diligently to cultivate a nurturing environment for my now 6-year-old. His siblings have only witnessed my occasional frustrations, never the deep emotional battles I’ve faced. Thanks to the guidance of a wise counselor and the support of my husband, I no longer resort to anger. Instead, I breathe deeply, sing when I feel the urge to yell, and create mantras to calm myself. Most importantly, I confronted the fear that had transformed into anger. Once I addressed that, I could finally see clearly. Though small irritations still arise, they no longer escalate into rage.
So, you can understand the tears that flow. My oldest serves as my mirror, reflecting not just my strengths but also my vulnerabilities. He has taught me profound lessons about myself. I thought I had dealt with the past nightmares of my childhood, but parenthood has a unique way of dredging up old demons, often in the form of a child you carried for nine months.
I cry out of gratitude for the lessons he’s imparted, but guilt lingers in the pit of my stomach. I know that this struggle with anger is part of my journey, but I remain hopeful that the joyful experiences we’ve shared outweigh the darker moments.
I openly discuss my anger because I refuse to let it remain unspoken. Where silence thrives, negativity prevails. I have experienced my share of challenges and wish to shed light on these issues for others facing similar struggles. If we don’t have these open dialogues during playdates or moms’ nights, when will we? The women who share in my “anger confessions” are the ones I rely on to hold me accountable.
If we ignore these feelings, we risk raising another generation of children who live in fear. I won’t let that happen.
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Summary:
Navigating the landscape of parenting can be challenging, especially for those who have experienced trauma in their upbringing. This article reflects on the struggles of managing parental anger while striving to create a loving environment for children. Through open dialogue and support, it’s possible to break the cycle of fear and foster a nurturing space for the next generation.