Rage.

I have never been so angry in my life. I kicked my kid’s tiny chair across the room. I screamed until the back of my throat stung sour, dry and parch. Like all the water and wetness from inside me rushed to my eyes and I couldn’t see or think or feel anything but anger.

Rage.

It’s like a simmering soup. Unassuming, quiet—and then all of the sudden it’s boiling over and uncontrollable. It’s hissing and steaming and rolling with fury. It doesn’t care what it destroys in its path. It burns.

Motherhood.

It’s magical and miserable. It’s disruptive. It cracks me open like an egg. Again and again. Never to be the person I was. The shell that once protected me is broken. All that exists now is wet, gooey vulnerability.

It’s chaotic stillness. It crashes into me with no way out but through.

Growth.

I am doing it.