Angry Mom
Kelly is pictured holding her daughter. They stand near a shoreline and there is a blue sky in the background.
By. Kelly Conroy
I shuffled through the kitchen attempting to prepare dinner as Hallie clung, whining, to my legs. At the table, I worked quickly – slicing strawberries, spreading hummus and refilling her plate while my own food remained untouched. And still, she whined.
I spent all day and all yesterday and all every day hustling to meet her needs. Still, she demanded more.
As she shoveled food into her mouth and hollered when I inevitably took too long to refill her plate, I filled with rage. My body tense, jaw clenched, the pressure built and threatened to spill forward, to pour out of my mouth, or worse, my hands.
In that moment of unrelenting whines, demands, and clings, in that moment of toddler-induced exhaustion, anger, and exacerbation, an Instagram post came to my mind.
I had glanced at a post once when I numb-scrolling about how feeling like an “angry mom” often meant you were really feeling overwhelm, loneliness, judgment, or lack of control. With that small IG-induced interruption in my thoughts, I was able to pull myself out of my frantic anger tailspin and ask, “Why?” Why was this dinner so triggering? Why was I so overwhelmed, to the point of rage, by my daughter’s dissatisfaction that evening?
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I grew up a perfectionist. An overachiever. Demanding myself to be better, no matter how good I already was. Work harder, be smarter, run faster.
I spent three decades chasing after the perfect version of myself. I punished myself for not being good enough by restricting my food intake (I didn’t earn or deserve the calories) and by dating guys who treated me the same way I treated myself (Maybe if I just loved him harder or surrendered the last of my boundaries or paid his rent, he would love me back. Maybe then I would be good enough).
I punish myself still by furiously compiling and completing “To Do” lists and playing house manager whack-a-mole. No dish can be left unwashed. No article of clothing can be left unfolded. Nothing can be out of place or I won’t achieve perfection.
So, after I had cooked dinner, packed lunches, cleaned the kitchen, and filled her plate repeatedly and my daughter still proceeded to open-mouth-crinkle-nose-whine-holler at me to do MORE, I was ready to scream. And not just scream generally like you might into a pillow or your steering wheel when it all gest to be a little too much, but to scream directly at her. I was ready to scold her, take the food away, and blame her for it. I was ready to tell her that her actions and feelings meant she wouldn’t have a full stomach that night. I was ready to mercilessly unload 33 years of failed perfectionism (is there any other kind?) onto my 17-month-old daughter.
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That I didn’t explode at my toddler felt like a miracle. Instead, I looked at her and said, “Hallie, we need to talk. Mama is having a really hard time at dinner tonight.”
The tension in her face lifted. Her eyes, previously scrunched with displeasure, opened wide and looked straight into mine. Her mouth, previously agape with impatience, softly closed and her lips rested together. We spent the rest of the meal discussing the situation. We talked about how hard I try to stay on top of the entire household and make sure all her needs are met. We talked about her big feelings, her exhaustion, and the hard work she does all day to learn and grow. And then I said, “Mama has always worked to be perfect but that’s silly because I’m already perfect just the way I am.”
As I teared up hearing those healing words from my own mouth, my daughter’s bright eyes watched closely and she nodded her head, “Yes.”
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With some distance from that moment, I realize now it wasn’t a miracle that I didn’t burst with rage at the dinner table that night. It was a result of 6 years (and still going!) of therapy, reiki, tapping, body work, and EMDR. It was a result of the new patterns and self-awareness I had worked so hard to create by healing my wounds so I could move through my life and into motherhood more intentionally.
For a long time, I thought the work I did in therapy was to benefit me. I see now that healing myself, breaking cycles, and practicing self-love is the most important work I could do for my daughter.
Close up of Kelly, wearing a closed mouth smile, shoulder length brown hair, and a white tank top.
Kelly Conroy is a word warrior, mother, and tree whisperer based in Northern California. By invoking a combination of her two superpowers - science and empathy - Kelly seeks to change the world by first unpacking, interpreting, and healing her own experiences. She is the founder of Fierce Unfolding, an organization with a mission to dismantle internalized patriarchy and promote self-love. Kelly is also clumsily tumbling through the tumult of motherhood and learning to re-love her own inner child along the way.