This account comes from a friend of mine, whom I’ll refer to as Sarah. At 31, she is happily married and the mother of three daughters, all aged four and younger. Her story recounts a day when everything spiraled out of her control.
“Mom, I want orange juice!”
It was just another chaotic morning. The remnants of last night’s dinner piled up in the sink, the baby’s cries echoed through the house, and the toddler had just sent her breakfast tumbling to the floor.
“Ugh. Not again,” Sarah muttered under her breath as she bent down to scoop the still-warm scrambled eggs off the linoleum, placing them back on the paper plate.
“Nooooo!” her toddler wailed, kicking her legs in frustration. “I want thooooooose!”
A heat rose in Sarah’s chest—a simmering fire that threatened to ignite.
“Mommy, can you get me a fork?” her preschooler chimed in.
“Not right now. Just wait a moment.”
“Oh no, I just spilled my milk!” And with that, the fire within her intensified.
Taking a deep breath, Sarah tried to steady herself amidst the noise of crying, whining, and endless demands. It felt like her daughters were pouring lighter fluid onto the flames of frustration inside her—a blaze that had begun to grow silently, but steadily.
After breakfast, it was time to get dressed. Sarah asked her toddler to put on her red skirt, but tears and theatrics ensued, leading to a 13-minute discussion about various clothing options—the green shorts, pink jeans, or frilly skirt. With each suggestion, the fire within her grew hotter, spiraling out of control.
Eventually, Sarah found herself unable to engage with the outfit debate any longer. Wordlessly, she turned and walked away. Her daughter’s cries followed her.
Next, it was time to tackle hair brushing with her preschooler, who had sensory sensitivities. As expected, her daughter cried as Sarah brushed her hair, and once again, that simmering lava boiled inside her. It was becoming unbearable.
“I need to get away,” Sarah thought, feeling the pressure building. She put the baby in her crib and retreated to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Staring into the mirror, she realized it was only 10 a.m., and she had yet to brush her teeth, change out of her pajamas, or even eat breakfast.
As she sat on the toilet, the banging on the door began. “Mommyyyyyyyyy!”
Her preschooler entered, tears streaming down her face. “The plastic piece fell off my Doc McStuffins toy again, and it’s broken!” Still seated, Sarah quickly assembled the toy for her.
“Please leave my room now,” Sarah instructed, her voice rising sharply. Something felt different.
Her daughter obeyed, but as Sarah stood up, she noticed her preschooler returning. The fire within her surged.
“Mom, it broke again,” the toddler shrieked.
“I can’t fix it anymore! Please get out of my room!” Sarah’s calm demeanor had vanished, replaced by a desperate shout.
The flames were about to erupt.
The door opened once more. “Mom, it’s still not…”
“Get out now!”
The rage exploded from her, a torrent of frustrations—spilled eggs, broken toys, and the never-ending demands—all erupted forth. Each word fired from her mouth with an intensity she couldn’t control.
But the target of her wrath was her own child—the same little girl she had nurtured, taught, and adored. That very girl became the focus of a whirlwind of anger that Sarah could no longer contain.
In a fit of frustration, she tossed the broken toy onto the floor. “I am not fixing that dumb toy again!” she shouted, followed by a forceful shove of her daughters into their beds. “Stay there and do not get up!”
Trembling, Sarah retreated to her room, slammed the door, and collapsed on the floor, overwhelmed by emotion. The baby’s cries faded into the background as she wept, utterly helpless. After a few moments, she composed herself enough to type a message to her husband: “Things are bad. I need you to come home.”
In the following days, Sarah sought assistance. She contacted her midwife and therapist, ensuring her husband stayed close while she navigated this challenging phase. After being prescribed medication, the first few days were a struggle, but soon, she noticed a shift.
“I still don’t understand what happened that day,” she shared with me during a visit three months later. “It was terrifying. At that level of anger, it feels uncontrollable. I can see how some mothers reach a breaking point. Everything builds up—crying babies, whining kids, broken toys—until you feel like you’re about to snap.”
To this day, Sarah is unsure whether it was hormonal, a chemical imbalance, or something deeper. Despite a history of anxiety, she generally manages well. Yet, some days, the demands of motherhood can be overwhelming, making her feel like she’s on the edge of collapse. On that fateful morning, the cumulative frustrations ignited a terrifying rage within her.
“I couldn’t escape. As a stay-at-home mom, there was nowhere to go,” she reflected.
As a friend, I can attest to Sarah’s gentle nature. She is a thoughtful, down-to-earth person—someone who seems calm and collected. But beneath that surface, like all of us, lies a struggle. I share her story to shed light on the reality of motherhood.
At some point, every mother has felt that fire burning inside. While not everyone shouts or loses control, we all experience the pressure that can build to a breaking point.
It’s crucial to recognize when that fire is starting to smolder. If you find yourself in a similar situation, take it seriously. Reach out for help. Remember, you are not alone.
For more insights on navigating motherhood, check out our blog post on the At-Home Insemination Kit and dive into the world of food art for creative family activities. Additionally, this resource on the IVF process provides valuable information on fertility treatments.