There was a time when I was standing in the middle of my mom and dad’s house, holding a newborn on one hip and yelling at a toddler — exhausted, broke, and drowning in resentment. I ask myself now: how much of an asshole was I?
This was the start of the recession. I had no money, no partner, and two babies depending on me. I was lucky to land a job as a receptionist at a landscaping company — a job I knew I didn’t want forever. But I needed it. I needed anything. I was also attending junior college part-time, clinging to the hope that I could give my kids a better life — that I could break the cycle and prove to my family (and myself) I wasn’t a failure.
But I was angry. Angry at my ex-husband for leaving. Angry at the life I never imagined I’d have. Angry at myself. This is what postpartum rage, parenting burnout, and single mom depression can look like. In that storm of stress, anxiety, and emotional exhaustion, the person who caught the worst of it was my daughter — my sweet, innocent firstborn.
She reminded me of him — stubborn, loud, demanding. But she was also incredibly smart — smarter than me or her bio-dad, honestly. And the weight of being a single mother to two young kids, with no emotional support, no financial cushion, and no idea how to cope, took a toll on my mental health. I didn’t even know I needed help. I didn’t know how to ask. Therapy and mental health resources were out of reach — no insurance, no money, no time. Just survival.
Living at home didn’t help. My parents, typical baby boomers, were stuck in their ways and just as stubborn as I was. And while I take full responsibility for the yelling and how I reacted, I’ve come to understand something important: I grew up surrounded by generational trauma. Yelling was the language of our household. It doesn’t make it okay — but it helps me see where some of it came from.
This was a dark chapter in my life. I regret a lot — especially how I handled the anger. I regret directing pain that wasn’t her fault toward her. That’s a kind of emotional damage I now work every day to undo. But I also know I was just trying to survive. It doesn’t excuse my behavior. But it’s the truth. And healing starts with honesty.
I hope one day my daughters can forgive me. I understand why they aren’t as close to me as I would like to be. I hope with time we all heal.