When the Wall Gets a Hole in It

The other day, I crashed.

Not the quiet, tired kind of crash—

the explosive, stretched-thin, “every sound feels like a stab” kind of crash.

Motherhood already keeps my hands full—

then add puppies, my own need for solitude,

the grief of a relationship with my mother that’s mostly gone but somehow still has a door cracked open,

the old trauma from my marriage that sneaks back in when I’m not expecting it,

and the ache of missing my great-grandmother, who passed away last year.

I’ve been carrying a lot.

Some of it neatly, most of it not.

That morning was already hectic—

baby crying, preschooler whining, puppies establishing dominance through full-on wrestling matches.

Noise on top of noise. Chaos on top of chaos.

By evening, I was trying to keep my patience in place like loose change in a pocket.

I was feeding the pups and getting ready to take them outside when my preschooler told me one of them had peed in the house.

And I lost it.

Not in the “deep sigh and walk away” kind of way—

in the “knock over the kid’s play place while trying to grab the puppy and accidentally put a hole in the wall” kind of way.

In that moment, it wasn’t just about the pee.

It was about the hundred other things I’ve been holding in my body—

and the fact that no one (myself included) gave me a pause before I snapped.

I do feel bad for losing my shit in front of everyone.

But this is still a house where emotions are allowed to exist.

So I sat down with my 3-year-old, and the puppies (yes, they got the talk too),

and explained:

“My anger is valid. My actions were not okay. I should have taken a pause.”

I apologized. I promised to do better. And since then, I have been doing better.

But also…

it’s definitely time for me to visit a rage room. Because, seriously—WTF.