Sometimes, I just break down.
After a few particularly hard parenting days, my body finally said, “Girl. Absolutely not.” And I lost it. Not gracefully. Not in a cute “Mommy needs five minutes” kind of way. I mean I LOST it.
And I promise you, this isn’t the first time. It probably won’t be the last. Because sometimes? It’s all too much. The kids. The mental load. The house. Work. Schedules. Activities. Appointments. The things everybody needs from me. The things I need from myself. The things I want to build. The things I’m trying to heal. The things I haven’t even gotten around to thinking about because there are seventeen other things screaming louder. All. Of. It.
And most days, I handle it. Actually, I handle the hell out of it.
I get everybody where they need to go. I remember the things. I send the emails. I check the calendars. I work my full-time job. I show up for my kids. I work on Turn the Paige whenever I can find a pocket of time. I try to take care of my body. I try to take care of my mind. I try to maintain friendships and relationships and a house and some tiny sliver of a life that belongs only to me.
And then every once in a while, my body says: that’s enough.
Fun fact: the breakdown usually isn’t about the thing. And that’s what I’m learning, in real time. There’s usually a thing that happens right before I break down. A kid has a meltdown.
Somebody talks back. Everybody needs something at the exact same time. Something doesn’t go according to plan (pre kids I was VERY Type A haha post kids, I am whatever Type the day needs me to be). I’m overstimulated. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I’m touched out. Someone asks me one seemingly innocent question and suddenly I’m looking at them like they personally orchestrated my downfall.
But it’s rarely just about that one thing. That thing is just the final addition to a pile that was already way too damn high.
My seven year old’s soccer game was over and he wanted to stay and play longer. Except his four year old brother and mama were cold, tired, and ready to go. Cue the tears from the seven year old and from the four year old. Everyone needed something different from me at that moment and I was spent. It was yet another Saturday at the soccer field solo with a four year old in tow. I lost it on both of them. I said things that I shouldn’t have said and things that their father needed to hear, not them. My anger was misdirected towards them. Of course, I was irritated because they were giving me attitude for different reasons but the actual reason I was angry was because I was at yet another sporting event solo with both of them. That was a conversation for me to have with their father, not them. I was angry at myself for not speaking up and saying how I really felt about solo momming on Saturdays for the last few years. I lost it.
But after the breakdown (from me) came the repair. I had that conversation with their father and my body kept me in bed for a few hours. Every word that I said to my kids, in my fury was true; the words should’ve been delivered differently and to a different person. They understood as much as their kid brains could comprehend and we moved on.
I had been going and going and going. And then my body basically said, “Since you apparently aren’t going to stop voluntarily, allow me.” And whew. She did!
I don’t always love or like the version of me that comes out. That’s probably one of the hardest parts. Sometimes when I’m overwhelmed, I don’t respond the way I wish I had. I yell. I get irritated. I say something more harshly than I meant to. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I need everyone to stop talking to me before I absolutely lose my marbles. And afterward comes the guilt.
Because motherhood has this fun little feature where you can be completely overwhelmed by everything you’re carrying and then immediately feel terrible about the way you responded to being completely overwhelmed by everything you’re carrying. Love that for us!
But I’m trying to learn the difference between taking accountability for my behavior and shaming myself for reaching my limit. I can say, “I shouldn’t have yelled like that.” I can apologize to my kids. I can repair. I can try something different next time. And I can also acknowledge that I was not okay. Both can be true.
My body knows before I admit it. This is probably the biggest lesson for me. My brain will keep negotiating. I’m fine. Just get through today. Just get through this week. I’ll rest later. It’s not that serious. Meanwhile, my body is somewhere in the background waving both hands like: MA’AM, YES IT IS. Because the body keeps receipts. The tension. The irritability. The exhaustion. The overstimulation. The short fuse. The feeling that one more person asking you for one more thing might actually send you into orbit.
Those are signals. And I am trying — emphasis on trying — to notice them before we get all the way to DEFCON 1.
Resilience isn’t just how much I can take. I’ve always been resilient. I know a lot of women are. And mothers? Whew. Sometimes we’re resilient because there isn’t another option. The kids still need you. Morning still comes. Lunches still need packing. Somebody can’t find a shoe. Somebody needs to be somewhere. Life doesn’t necessarily stop because Mom had a breakdown yesterday. So you get back up. And there’s something beautiful about that.
But lately I’ve been thinking about another side of resilience. Maybe resilience isn’t just - look how much I can carry. Maybe it’s also - this is really, really heavy. Something has to come out of my hands. Because I don’t want my reward for being capable to be more things to carry. I don’t want to keep proving how strong I am by repeatedly reaching my breaking point and recovering from it. I want to learn from the breaking point. What was too much? Where do I need help? What am I doing automatically that doesn’t actually have to be mine? What haven’t I been saying because keeping the peace felt easier? What do I need that I haven’t been giving myself permission to need? Those questions feel different for me now.
Apparently, I have a voice. One thing I’m realizing in this season of my life is that I feel more comfortable speaking up. And now that I do? I don’t think I’m going to shut up. Oops. I’m learning to say when something isn’t working for me. I’m learning to ask for support. I’m learning that other people’s disappointment, defensiveness or discomfort doesn’t automatically mean I’ve done something wrong. I’m learning that I can love my people deeply and still have limits. And I’m learning that taking care of myself cannot always be the thing I squeeze into whatever time everybody else leaves behind. That’s going to require some changes. And some uncomfortable conversations. And probably some more tears, because hello, have we met?! But I think that’s part of this version of me I’m becoming too.
Sometimes, I just break down. I wish I could end this with some profound lesson about how I’ve mastered emotional regulation and now greet every difficult parenting moment with three deep breaths and a gentle smile. Girl, please! I have a four year old and a seven year old. There will be more hard days. There will probably be more moments when I get overwhelmed. There will be times I don’t handle something the way I wish I had.
And yes, there will probably be another breakdown. I’m human! But maybe the goal isn’t to never break down again. Maybe it’s learning to hear myself a little sooner. To repair when I get it wrong. To stop treating my limits like personal failures. To ask for help before I’m drowning. And to remember that being a good mother doesn’t require me to carry everything beautifully all the time. Sometimes I’m strong. Sometimes I’m resilient. Sometimes I’m handling stuff like a BOSS. And sometimes? I cry. I lose it. I regroup. And I try again tomorrow. Because motherhood is beautiful.
Motherhood is exhausting. Motherhood can bring out parts of me I absolutely adore and parts of me that make me go, “Ma’am…WHAT WAS THAT?!”
And all of it is me. Still learning. Still growing. Still mothering. Still evolving. And still here.
