I’ve been working so hard on myself lately.
Every week, I show up for life coaching, learning to breathe deeper, to be kind to my inner child, to put the hard stuff in a little mental box. I know, logically, that when Gracie has a meltdown, the way through is for me to stay calm, stay with her, help her co-regulate. I know this in my brain, my heart, my bones.
But knowing and doing are two very different things.
Because when Gracie spins up into hurricane mode — the endless yelling, the screaming, the hitting, the cycling around and around for what feels like hours (sometimes is hours) — something inside me builds, too. I can feel the rising heat in my chest, the tightness in my jaw, the suffocating wave of noise and need and desperation. And even as a small voice inside whispers, stay calm, stay soft, another part of me surges up and — BAM — I lose it.
I yell. I snap. I feel myself fracture.
And then comes the shame. The hours, sometimes days, of replaying it in my mind, wondering what lifelong trauma I’ve caused, why I can’t be better, why I can’t be the mother Gracie needs me to be. I swear to myself I’ll do better, that next time I won’t lose my temper, that I’ll be the calm in the storm.
Until the next time happens.
The Overwhelm of Parenting Meltdowns
The hardest part isn’t just the meltdowns. It’s the feeling of being trapped inside them with no way out.
When Gracie is in full meltdown, there is no break for me. If I try to leave the room, she follows, screaming and banging on the doors. If I try to hide under a pillow, she pulls at me, kicks me, yells even louder. And all the while, Noah is often crying too, needing to be held, needing me to be his calm. I feel split into pieces, pulled in opposite directions, doing neither job passably, drowning under the weight of both. The tiredness sinks deep into my bones. The overwhelm floods my chest. And sometimes – if I’m honest – a quiet resentment flickers inside: Why is this so hard? Why can’t I escape, even for a moment?
It feels like being pushed beyond the limits of what a human heart, a human nervous system, a human mother can endure. And layered over that is the memory of every past meltdown. Every moment I’ve held my breath and braced. Every frayed nerve unraveling thread by thread until I’m raw, brittle – a thin skin stretched over exhaustion.
So why does this happen? Why, even with all the love and knowledge and intention, does it still feel impossible?
Why Parenting Overwhelm Happens
It’s not because you’re weak. It’s not because you’re failing.
It’s because your body and brain are trying to keep you safe, and sometimes they misfire under the weight of it all.
Here’s what I’m learning about what’s really going on inside me:
- Parent-child attachment is primal. Gracie pulls on a part of me deeper than thought. She is mine, and when she screams or lashes out, my whole system goes into alarm. Even when I know she’s not actually a danger, my body feels like it’s under attack. My heart races. My breath catches. I’m trying to soothe a fire with bare hands.
- Old emotional wounds get stirred up. Her intensity presses on the tender places in me – the ones that never learned how to fall apart safely. Sometimes it feels like my inner child and my actual child are both crying at once, and I can’t comfort either.
- The sensory input is too much. The shrieking, the hitting, the chaos – it’s more than noise. It floods every part of me. My skin gets hot. My thoughts scatter. It’s not about frustration, it’s about my nervous system going into full shutdown.
- Her storm becomes my storm. Our bodies mirror each other. When she spirals, I spiral. When she screams, I clench. When she unravels, I do too. And suddenly, we’re both lost in it.
And here’s the part I keep coming back to, the part I cling to like a lifeline –
Repair Matters More Than Rupture
It’s not about being perfect. No one is.
It’s about what comes after.
I gather Gracie up after the storm. I hold her close, bury my face in her hair, and whisper, “I’m sorry.” Her lashes are damp. Her lip trembles. Her whole body curls into mine like she’s trying to become small again, to find safety in my arms. And when I look into her eyes, I see it – the vulnerability, the ache, the love. And I also see that she knows. She knows she’s still loved. She knows I came back for her.
That’s the moment that matters.
Not the yelling. Not the rupture. But the return.
Every time I come back, every time I repair, I’m teaching her something powerful – that love can bend and not break. That we can mess up and still be safe. That I won’t leave her in the storm. That even when I fall apart, I will always find my way back to her.
A Reminder for Mums in the Trenches
To every mum in the thick of it:
You are not broken. You are not failing. You are human.
You are carrying more than anyone sees, holding more than anyone understands, and still finding a way to show up every day.
Your best might feel messy, frayed, ungraceful. But, it is enough.
You are allowed to be a storm and a shelter. You are allowed to break down and begin again. You are allowed to be both fierce and tender.
And most of all, you are not alone.