When the Last Straw Isn't Really the Last Straw

It was one of those days. I woke up even more exhausted than when I went to sleep. I was already feeling uncomfortably hot, despite the AC and fans. I was not ready to deal with children arguing and pulling each other’s hair out. Energy was depleted, and I hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet. I was already at my emotional capacity by 9 am.

It was not looking to be a good day for me or for anyone who happened to cross paths with my already frayed nervous system.

Enter my husband, who informed me that they were planning to go to the park with no shade and a sandbox. Let’s just say I shattered before even making it out of my bedroom. I not-so-calmly told him that I needed a few minutes after we shared several heated words with each other. I got back in bed and curled up under the covers despite being really hot already. He came back. The heated words got louder, and I felt what little composure and restraint I had fully slipping away.

I melted into the corner of our room, letting out sobs that I had been holding in for weeks. Maybe I really need to learn to cry and get it all out. I haven’t cried much since the year before and after my dad died. I think I used up all my tears back then. But I am realizing that maybe a good cry is like a mental exorcism, a way to release some of the unrest that is stuck in my mind and body.

It’s so hard to feel like your entire mental state is upside down. I’ve thought about how to describe it, and I don’t really have the words.

Feeling not okay but also being okay.

Being able to appear remotely functional but being set off by the small and big things alike. Things that should not cause a nuclear reaction in me get the same reaction as something big. I work so hard to stifle it, but this morning, it simply wasn’t happening. I was fully unraveling.

I heard my 3.5-year-old looking for me. She came running into my room, and luckily for me, she is not very good at hide-and-seek yet. She literally walked past me and didn’t see me cowering in the corner.

It’s not that I don’t want my kids to ever see me cry. No, I actually think it’s good for them to see me cry sometimes. It’s just that, in that moment, I felt so out of sorts. I knew I wouldn’t be able to truthfully answer the inevitable ‘why are you sad, Mommy’ question that would earnestly come once she saw my tears.

She eventually did find me, with the help of her father, who is a bit better at hide-and-seek. She wrapped her little arms around me, confused as to why I was sitting in the corner, and then went on to find her big sister. She didn’t even notice my red eyes and uneven breathing. I suppose her lack of attention to small details in this instance worked in my favor.

I did manage to pull myself together so we could all leave the house. Instead of heading to the park right away, we compromised and went to Target (air-conditioned) to find sand toys. We did not find sand toys (apparently they stop selling them in August), and the kids decided they were hungry. So we went for lunch and ice cream. No day is complete for my oldest without ice cream.

I found myself sitting on some stairs with my kids, trying to focus on finding joy in how much they love ice cream while trying to hide the storm that had been brewing deep within me since I woke up that morning.

While we were sitting there, I was eyeing a few young boys, probably 10 years old, who were playing nearby with a ball. I remember watching them and thinking how they really shouldn’t be playing with a ball around all these people. I really hope that ball doesn’t hit one of my kids, one of the other kids, or one of the grandparents sitting nearby. I purposely sat between the boys playing ball and my kids to serve as a buffer.

Luckily, after a few minutes, we saw a table open up, out of the range of the boys playing ball. We started walking towards the table when all of a sudden, I felt a hard whack, right on the side of my head. It scared me because I wasn’t expecting it, and it hurt. A lot.

Before I could stop myself, I snapped at the little boy who threw it. I told him he shouldn’t be throwing a ball around so many people and that it was a good thing he hadn’t hit one of my children—or any of the other children—in the head.

He looked terrified. Honestly, I felt terrified for him. Still doesn’t change the fact that he shouldn’t have been playing ball in such a crowded place. What if he hit the newborn? The elderly couple?

His mom witnessed the exchange and immediately had him apologize. I will admit, I was mortified at my reaction. (Though it really did hurt, AND he really shouldn’t have been throwing the ball there.)

But, still.

I don’t think I needed to snap at him. (Am I gaslighting myself here? Maybe a bit.)

His mom kept eyeing me, even after she ushered him away. I’m not sure what she thought I was going to do. Call the police? Run after them? I think that boy had learned his lesson.

Once he was out of sight, I kept thinking, “Great. I’m THE mean lady. I’m the mean lady.”

The irony? I was wearing my favorite “Moms Rule” hat.

Nothing like representing motherhood while simultaneously feeling like you’ve completely failed at it.

I’ve replayed that interaction a bunch of times.

Yes, he shouldn’t have been playing ball there.
Yes, it really hurt.
Yes, someone absolutely could have gotten hurt.
Yes, I still wish I’d responded a little bit differently.
All of these things can be true AND are true.

But as I’ve continued thinking about it, of course, getting hit by the ball was not the (full) problem. The ball was simply the final straw.

As a mom, we all know that there are actually many final straws. Mom math has its own rules. Literally and figuratively.

And apparently, even at the end of my emotional rope, I still had enough energy left to beat myself up.

I started thinking: Why in the world am I judging myself only on this one moment instead of also taking everything that went on earlier into consideration?

Why do we judge ourselves by the moment we finally break instead of also considering everything we were carrying before it? It’s almost as if we define ourselves by our worst moment instead of giving ourselves grace for everything that came before it.

Maybe it’s because it’s August. My oldest is starting Kindergarten. My little one has her last year in daycare. My girls are starting new activities. I’m starting a new teaching role. Routines are shifting. Emotions will be shifting. So much change, mostly good, sprinkled with tantrums and painful pinches.

There are forms to fill out, backpacks to organize, schedules to coordinate, emotions (most likely disproportionately big) to prepare for, and about a thousand invisible things to remember.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, we’re supposed to act and feel like everything is fine because these are good transitions. (Think happy dance dropping the kid off at school but also feeling like your heart just got ripped out and left there to fend for itself in kindergarten.)

Transitions create emotional strain long before we consciously register what we’re losing, gaining, changing, or bracing for.

Then one small thing happens.
Someone forgets their shoes.
Your youngest child melts down.
You spill your freshly-brewed coffee on yourself.
Or a ball hits you in the head.

Suddenly your reaction seems wildly disproportionate - that is, unless you understand everything that reaction is carrying.

Sometimes, oftentimes, we are not reacting only to what just happened. We are reacting to so many things.

The schedule change. The ending. The uncertainty. The invisible preparation. The loss of rhythm. Every feeling we haven’t yet had time to name.

And sometimes, even when we have named it, our nervous system still hasn’t caught up. (Take mine, for example. Definitely did not catch up yet.)

People often think grief is reserved for death or devastating loss.

But grief is simply our emotional response to loss and change. And transitions - even the happy ones - are full of both. Both/And.

• The version of our child who existed before this stage.

• The version of ourselves who existed before this stage.

• The routines we finally figured out.

• The season we were desperate to survive but are somehow still sad to leave.

• The role we occupied before everything shifted yet again.

• The illusion that we had finally found stable ground and sort of figured it out.

In fact, it’s the opposite. It helps build that awareness. It gives us the language to name what we’re feeling and describe it to ourselves and others. It helps us understand why we suddenly feel so raw, irritable, exhausted, or undone. And when we can name what’s happening, its intensity decreases, and it starts to lose just a little of its power over us.

So, my new anchor for myself is that instead of berating myself and essentially scolding myself for why I reacted in a certain way, I will ask myself a new question:

“What was I already carrying before this happened?”

This will also hopefully interrupt the spiral I know all too well (and am working hard to break) - the one where I keep beating myself up. I hope it will help invite more self-compassion and understanding.

In retrospect, it’s pretty clear to me that my nervous system pretty much reached its limits. I am a burnt-out, over-stimulated, perimenopausal mom of two young feisty girls. Need I say more?

Because, admittedly, sometimes the thing that happens is actually quite small. It just lands on top of an ending we haven’t acknowledged, a transition we haven’t processed, and a nervous system that’s been adapting nonstop.

I still wish I’d responded a little differently, though. Just a little.

I hope that little boy remembers his mom making him apologize far more than he remembers the mean lady in the Mom’s Rule hat who snapped at him.

I also need to remember the woman behind that hat. The one who isn’t usually mean.

The one who had been carrying far more than a ball to the head.

Maybe it was the exact invitation that I needed to give myself some much-needed self-compassion.

Maybe the ball wasn’t the problem after all. Maybe it was simply the thing that landed on top of everything else.

I’d Love to Hear From You:

Have you ever snapped at something small and then spent the rest of the day berating yourself about it? What were you actually carrying that day? Share a comment— I want to know I’m not the only one putting myself on trial over a ball to the head.

Related Reading:

• Memories I Never Got to Make — Loving One Moment While Grieving Another

• Motherhood Doesn’t Just Change Our Schedules. It Changes What Hurts

• Someone Else Made It Look Easy

A Gentle Resource:

If this stirred something up, you’re not alone — and you’re not failing, you’re feeling. That’s the whole idea behind my guided journal and Truth Cards, gentle companions for the days your nervous system gets there before your brain does. You can find them in the shop.