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It started with a typical morning spiral — the kind where one sock is missing, someone refuses the breakfast they asked for, and someone else is crying because I gave them exactly what they wanted but in the wrong bowl.
I was rushing. Snapping. Huffing loudly because apparently that’s how I communicate urgency now. My toddler was clinging. The baby was grizzling. And the vibe? It was off. The whole house felt loud and tight and ready to combust.
And then it hit me.
It wasn’t them. It was me.
I always thought I was the calm one — the anchor. The “regulated” parent. The one trying to hold it all together while everything around me spun. But that morning, I saw how my energy was fuelling the chaos, not calming it.
Every sigh. Every stomp. Every time I barked “Come ON!” from the hallway while throwing lunch into a bag — it landed. On little nervous systems. On tiny hearts. On kids who were already having a hard time.
I wasn’t reacting to the chaos. I was contributing to it.
That realisation didn’t come with shame — although there was a twinge — it came with clarity. A pause. A deep breath I hadn’t taken in what felt like hours.
Toddlers don’t regulate themselves — they co-regulate with us. They borrow our calm. Or they absorb our stress.
And on that particular morning, I gave them a stressed-out, short-fused, overstimulated mirror.
My toddler wasn’t acting out because he was difficult. He was responding to me. To the tone in my voice. To the speed in my footsteps. To the tension I carried in my shoulders and the way I moved through the morning like a storm.
He didn’t need a time-out. He needed me — regulated, grounded, present. Or at least, trying to be.
I’m not great at slowing down. It makes me itchy. I like ticking boxes and feeling accomplished and clearing the sink before 9am.
But that morning forced me to ask: What if the real work isn’t getting it all done? What if the real work is helping my kids feel safe in the middle of the mess?
So I stopped. I crouched down. I hugged my toddler, even though the baby was still crying and the clock was still ticking.
I said out loud, “Mum’s feeling flustered. I’m going to take a big breath so I can help better.” He didn’t say anything. But he softened. He leaned in.
And I realised that moment — that softening — was worth more than any perfectly packed lunchbox.
I’m not writing this from some calm, meditative state. I still lose it. I still shout across the house like a lunatic about shoes. But I’m trying.
I’m trying to:
Notice the energy in the room — and ask myself if I’m amplifying it
Breathe before I speak (or sigh)
Narrate my own emotions: “Mum’s feeling flustered, I’m going to take a deep breath”
Stop rushing things that don’t actually need to be rushed
Sit down while my kid’s having a meltdown, instead of standing over him like a drill sergeant
Sometimes the biggest shift is just stepping out of the power struggle long enough to ask: Am I escalating this? Or calming it?
The truth is, motherhood is overstimulating. We are touched out, pulled in every direction, and running on empty half the time.
But we are also the emotional thermostat of our homes.
And if the room is heating up — it’s worth checking whether we’ve accidentally turned up the dial.
I’m learning to check mine more often. Not to be perfect. Not to never yell. Just to show my kids that even big feelings can be managed — and model what it looks like to try.
If you’ve ever looked around in the middle of a meltdown and thought, “Oh… it’s me, hi, I’m the problem it’s me” — you’re not alone.
You’re also not broken. You’re just a mum doing her best, learning in real time, and showing your kids that grace starts with you.
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