Hi.
There are days when motherhood feels like joy layered on joy —
and then there are days when it feels like every sound hits a little too hard, every cry pulls at something too deep, every tantrum wakes up parts of me I wish stayed quiet.
Lately, we’ve been in one of those seasons.
Isla is strong-willed.
Brilliant.
Fierce.
And right now… exhausted and frustrated in ways she doesn’t yet know how to carry.
Everything I say is met with a no.
Everything she feels comes out loud — screaming, crying, stomping.
And when she doesn’t know where to put her anger, it spills onto Arthur.
She pushes.
She snaps.
She forgets how to share, how to soften, how to use the kindness I know lives inside her.
And I stand there — trying to be calm, trying to be patient, trying to be the parent I promised myself I would be — while something in me is already shaking.
Because tantrums don’t just feel like noise to me.
They feel like danger.
Not because of what she’s doing —
but because of what they wake up in me.
I grew up in chaos.
In unpredictability.
In emotions that weren’t safe and reactions that were too big.
So when Isla’s emotions explode, my body reacts before my mind has a chance to step in.
My heart races.
My shoulders tighten.
My breath shortens.
And suddenly, I’m not just a tired mum in a messy kitchen —
I’m a woman standing in the echo of her own past, trying not to let it write the present.
Some days, I manage it beautifully.
I kneel down.
I soften my voice.
I hold her through the storm.
And some days…
I don’t.
Some days I shout back.
Not because I want to.
Not because I believe in it.
But because my body reaches a breaking point and screams for everything to stop.
In those moments, it isn’t anger I feel —
it’s desperation.
A desperate wish for quiet.
For calm.
For everything to stop hurting all at once.
And then it’s over.
The storm passes.
Her sobs slow.
My heart sinks.
Because I know I’m not the mum I want to be in that moment.
So I do the most important part.
I apologise.
I sit beside her.
I look into her little face.
And I say the words I never heard as a child:
“Mummy got frustrated.
Mummy felt very sad.
I shouldn’t have shouted.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
And I will always try my best.”
Not because it fixes everything —
but because it teaches her something I had to learn too late:
That love doesn’t disappear when emotions get messy.
That mistakes don’t end connection.
That repair matters more than perfection.
There are days when it feels like I’m parenting two children and my own nervous system at the same time.
Trying to teach patience while learning it myself.
Trying to teach kindness while still practising it.
Trying to break cycles while still healing from them.
And yet… I keep showing up.
Not perfectly.
Not calmly every time.
But honestly.
Because I don’t want to raise children who think love only exists in the quiet moments.
I want them to know it exists in the repair too.
Isla is learning how to feel.
Arthur is learning how to watch.
And I am learning how to lead them both without losing myself in the process.
Some days are still hard.
Some days I go to bed feeling like I failed more than I succeeded.
But then there are moments —
soft ones —
where Isla wraps her arms around me after a storm and whispers,
“I love you, mummy.”
And in that moment, everything I worry about softens.
Because maybe motherhood isn’t about getting it right every time.
Maybe it’s about staying when it’s hardest.
Owning your mistakes.
Choosing gentleness again and again — even when your body remembers a different way.
I am not the calmest mum.
I am not the most patient mum.
I am not the mum I imagined I would be before life shaped me the way it did.
But I am a present mum.
A trying mum.
A mum who apologises.
A mum who keeps learning.
0 comments