I Couldn’t Stop Yelling At My Kids. Then I Uncovered Something Surprising From My Childhood That Was Causing It.
I’m standing in my kitchen chopping garlic when my 2-year-old shouts for more cheese crackers. The timer on the oven beeps at me to flip the fish sticks when I hear a loud wail from the living room. My middle son has hit my oldest, and now they’re both clamoring for me in tears.
“What happened now?” I bellow, my nerve endings frazzled from the exhaustion of being a mom to three kids ages 5 and under while pregnant with my fourth.
“Come on, guys! I’m trying to cook dinner. Why can’t we just play nicely?”
Rather than respond with care and empathy for my child who got hurt, I feel like a volcano has erupted right there in the kitchen. Suddenly I’m burning to yell at everyone for everything. I take a huge breath in and hug my son. I direct a dirty glare toward my other kid but eventually hug him, too, and ask that the kids talk about and apologize for what happened.
Then I immediately feel ashamed of my overblown reaction. They’re just kids, and everyone is OK.
The thing is, this incident was par for my parenting. Everyday moments used to catapult me into a fit of rage: a cup of spilled juice, a splotch of marker on the ottoman, running a few minutes late to a social event. I would yell at my kids and shame them for little things, things that all kids do. I knew that what I was doing wasn’t great, and I knew it was probably harming my kids. But I didn’t know how to break the cycle.
I searched for answers, following social media accounts of well-known child psychologists and parenting experts, like Becky Kennedy (who gives phenomenal advice, by the way). I tried being more patient and empathetic with my kids, and it worked — to a degree. But there was still something inside of me that caused me to unleash on my kids at a moment’s notice. I’d then feel shame, apologize, and the cycle would repeat. I didn’t want to be a rage-filled, yelling, anxious mom. What was my problem?
I had seen talk therapists and cognitive behavioral therapists in the past when I went through a breakup or needed help communicating better with my husband. But after continued struggles as a mother, I knew I needed to dig deeper. Oddly enough, my mom had told me about her recent experience of seeing an EMDR therapist to work through traumatic memories from her childhood and how she felt freer, better than she ever had. In fact, she said she wished she had gone 30 years ago and told me that she and my dad would give me some money for it so I could experience the mental and emotional freedom that they had. Little did I know, I would exceed their gift and keep going to my therapist every other week for three years, spending over $4,000 out of pocket.
I signed up to see an EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) and IFS (internal family systems) therapist. EMDR is a psychotherapy technique that helps you reprocess traumatic memories to reduce the level of disturbance within your mind and body. During EMDR sessions, I would recall difficult core memories while I moved my eyes side to side. Over time, the memories that haunted me (and the memories I never knew existed that were underlying) became less potent and my anxiety less frequent.
IFS psychotherapy involved seeing that I — and every human being — is made of multiple parts. Working within this model, I learned how to identify, accept and heal my younger parts, and create more harmony within myself.
Digging into childhood memories to heal myself as a mother sounded a bit “woo woo” and far-fetched, but week by week, the internal work fundamentally changed how I lived and parented.
Across three years in therapy, I discovered that most of the incidents that triggered me in parenting were reminders of the past. I was surprised to uncover this because I had a “good” childhood. We always had a roof over our heads. My parents were generous (after all, they even paid for some of my therapy) and, like so many parents, did the best they knew how for their kids. They weren’t alcoholics or abusive. But some things I now realize I could have benefited from, like more emotional attuning and opportunities to speak my own voice.
At first I was angry at my parents for all the things they had done or not done. And sure, anger is part of the healing process. But what was most transformative was focusing on how to notice when a younger, emotional part of me was being triggered by my own children.
Session after session, I sat on my therapist’s couch to talk about what was challenging me: spills, messes, running late, noises, a daughter who was loud and independent. Rather than handing out a list of coping skills, my therapist taught me how to notice when my body was being triggered by the past.
When my daughter shouted and resisted, a younger part of me remembered when I wasn’t allowed to speak up or balk at parental instruction.
When my sons fought, it reminded me of when my tears and feelings were suppressed.
When I’m running late, my body goes on high alert, remembering the pressure I felt to get out of the door as a kid.
My therapist told me that I had to learn to notice when something in my body changed, like a tenseness in my chest, a pause in my breath, my hands forming fists and shaking in the air. When those bodily manifestations begin, that’s my signal. That’s when I know I’m about to go off, rage or shame or yell. That’s when I know something is bubbling up from my past, something that keeps me from being present in the moment. If I do nothing, my body gets hijacked, and I respond with an emotional outburst instead of peace and calm.
So now that’s my daily work: noticing what’s happening in my body and when a younger part of me seems to be flaring up. Sometimes that means I picture my 5-year-old self in the room with me now, seeing her tiny face and golden blond hair. I might say hi to her and tell her that she’s safe now and she’s not that little girl anymore. She is strong and capable. The practice of seeing and talking to “little me” might sound trippy, and it certainly feels that way at times, but with practice, it works.
My therapist also told me I needed to get present in those triggering moments. Luckily, there are a few simple ways I can do that. I can rock my feet against the floor, pressing down on the hardwood from my ankle to my toes. I can glance at the wedding ring on my finger or the wrinkles on my hand to remind myself that I’m 37 now and married with four kids. I can look around the room and describe objects out loud, like the framed photo of the six of us at the beach or the thriving monstera plant sitting in the yellow pot. I can take a breath (not necessarily even a deep one) to find myself in my current adult body.
When I ground myself in the present (which, let’s be honest, isn’t easy to do when I’m overstimulated and exhausted), I can slow down the moment, almost as if I’m bending time. The slowness creates an opening, a chance to think before I respond to one of the kids. Like a bit of $4,000 magic, I can answer my daughter with more patience, give her a chance to speak her mind or cry in my arms.
More than anything, I have more agency over my emotions and the inevitable triggers of parenthood. I feel more connected and grounded, and attuned to my kids. I’m calmer, less anxious, less reactive and explosive. Rather than yelling or shaming my kids when they spill their cereal, I’m more likely to say, “We can clean that up!” Rather than running myself ragged, answering everyone’s needs, I’m more likely to notice when I need a break. Stepping away for a few moments prevents me from saying or doing something I’ll regret.
I still mess up. I still say things to my kids I shouldn’t. I still raise my voice sometimes. But far less than I used to, which I believe my kids have noticed. They laugh more. They’re more at ease, less scared I’m going to go off on them. They seem more confident, too, and able to express their feelings. I’ll overhear one of the kids sharing how they feel sad or hurt as they work out the issue with their sibling. I watch in awe as my son asks for space when he’s frustrated.
I’m still learning. But I’m taking steps to do better, be better, just like my parents did in different ways. Without them, I wouldn’t have tried such innovative therapy. And that’s what parenthood is all about: healing and improving over time and doing the best we can with what we’ve got.
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