What is one thing you would change about yourself?
I used to think changing my looks—maybe my hair or my nose—would fix everything and make me happier. But life taught me otherwise. The one thing I’d truly change is how quickly stress hijacks my emotions. Overwhelm turns into impulsive anger when my perfectionism meets chaos. That’s when I feel out of control.
Growing up, I watched a loved one explode over little things like a misplaced tool, a late dinner. He would yell until the air felt thick with tension. I remember my stomach twisting in knots, so tight that I couldn’t eat. I swore I’d never damage my own kids that way, but without tools, I repeated the pattern.
One evening after a brutal workday, my husband mentioned the dishes in the sink. My pulse hammered, chest tightened, and my voice sliced through the quiet kitchen with unfair frustrations. Silence fell heavy; his hurt eyes met mine, regret burning like acid in my throat. We talked it through later, but the sting lingered, echoing that childhood fear of becoming the yeller.
Having children gave me endless chances—both challenges and opportunities—to practice controlling that fire. Their small mistakes and big emotions test my patience constantly. Each time I slip up, I try harder the next day. I use tools like deep breathing to catch my rising anger. Exercising keeps stress in check. I also maintain healthy habits to keep my resilience strong. More than anything, I am learning to stay curious about my own flaws. I keep open, listening carefully to feedback. I try not to shut down or get defensive. It’s slow work, but progress is real.
Yesterday, my 6-year-old came home crabby, slamming his backpack down; I felt my own irritation rising, matching his sharp tone. But I paused—chest rising and falling with deep breaths—while my 2-year-old daughter watched wide-eyed. Kneeling down, I asked what he needed, validating his grouchiness but setting a calm boundary: no yelling. Knowing he craves sensory squeezes, we launched the “burrito game”. I took turns rolling them tight in blanket burritos on the couch, “baked” them with goofy warmth, then “ate” them with tickles. For 15 minutes, their giggles echoed as growls turned to belly laughs, stress melting into connection. The warmth of their laughter filled the room, a vivid contrast to the tension that once dominated these moments. This is what modeling patience looks like—turning tension into play, teaching them emotions don’t have to erupt.
What I’ve realized—and it’s changing everything—is that emotional regulation isn’t about never feeling mad. It’s catching those perfectionist triggers early, breathing through the old patterns instead of exploding. Now, instead of that youthful belief in superficial fixes, I’m building control from within. That shift mends my relationships, breaks my family’s cycle of outbursts, and lets me like the steady parent—and partner—I’m becoming. It’s a gift to my children, showing them that even strong feelings can be met with calm and love, not yelling.
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