Blowing It

I have moments where I worry about the negative impact I am having on my kid.
I blow my lid sometimes. I am working on it and am much better than I used to be but then she pushes just a little bit harder.

(Loud SCREAM that leaves my throat sore)

I see the trauma coded on her bones from her forbearers expressing itself in our relationship. In very similar ways that her father’s did in ours. The pushing of boundaries, the persistence to getting what is wanted, the lack of trust that what I am saying is true, the feelings of being controlled when in fact it’s just a boundary. One meant to create her safety and to protect mine.

My child pushes me to the edge and then kicks me off of it. I fear my reactions make it worse while also knowing that my desperation in needing her to stop is valid. That my trauma being activated in my nervous system is real. That my feelings and experiences as her mother are legitimate and just as important as hers. For I am the person that she will learn boundaries from. Who she will learn self control from. Who she will learn unconditional love from. Who will teach her to not tolerate abuse even from the people she loves and who love her back. Who will hold her accountable for her actions and teach her the power she holds in impacting the lives of others.

I am undoing the trauma in my child that I did not create.

I see these women who have been through FAR worse. Who survived their childhoods of neglect and abuse with no secure attachment in anyone. Who then became mother’s and have fought hard to do right by their children.
These women are my super heros.
These women give me purpose and hope in the work that I do. To become a safe, secure attachment for them. To see them. To honor them. To empower them. To give them the resources they have been seeking their whole life that will help free them from the chains of their past. To access not just the trauma in their bones but the resilience as well. The power of a people that refused to be stamped out.

My daughter carries these memories. The memories of her ancestors. Including those that still live.
I am blessed to be called her mother. It is not just a labor of love but a call to justice. A stand against all the harm done to millions of people over generations.
In my skin I wear a privilege that I did not earn. I give it back not in guilt or shame through martyrdom but in service to the women who have truly earned it. My gifts are not meant for only me.
My super power is that I see yours and I intend on helping you to see it as well.

My daughter’s power is great. It is fire to my fire. Hot metal forging against itself. Ripping me from my confidence and replacing it with wisdom.
With grace.
With tears.
Not of sadness but exhaustion.
Watering me with determination that I have never felt before.
I am rewriting the story.
My tolerance gone for the old worn out lies that tell people they just have to tolerate it.

Sometimes I blow my lid.
What I am not blowing is motherhood.
What I am not blowing is psychotherapist.
What I am not blowing is the writer.

I am however, working on it.