Since giving birth to my daughter during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic in May 2020, I have discovered a peculiar method for releasing pent-up emotions while in the confines of my car. It involves rolling up the windows, regardless of the sweltering heat outside. The act of screaming, contemplating the terrifying notion of inadvertently leaving my baby in the scorching car, and questioning my worthiness, all contribute to this cathartic experience. In these moments, I find solace in silence, shutting out the noise of the world—be it distressing news updates or mundane chatter.
As someone who has always prided myself on maintaining composure and avoiding anger, this newfound surge of emotions caught me off guard. The incessant worry and the relentless pursuit of safeguarding my precious child consumed me. I delved into a cycle of relentless research, attempting to control every aspect of our lives to shield her from harm. The fear of the unknown, exacerbated by the uncertainties of the pandemic, only heightened my parental anxieties. The constant reminders of the potential threats lurking in public spaces further fueled my paranoia, leaving me breathless in a world fraught with peril.
Amidst the laundry list of concerns and the unending stream of questions plaguing my mind, a breaking point was inevitable. The physical outburst, manifested in throwing a basket across the room, was a visceral reaction to the overwhelming sense of powerlessness. The subsequent episodes of releasing pent-up frustration in the solitude of my car or the struggle to soothe my daughter to sleep underscored a deeper turmoil brewing within me.
Despite the unwavering love I held for my daughter, a profound connection that transcended words, I grappled with an inexplicable rage. The fear of losing her, the fear of failing to protect her, gnawed at my core. The disparity between the idyllic image of motherhood and the tumultuous reality I faced left me grappling with self-doubt and guilt. The disparity between the societal expectations of motherhood and the raw, unfiltered emotions I experienced only exacerbated my internal conflict.
In seeking solace and understanding, I turned to literature, delving into narratives that resonated with my inner turmoil. Works like Rachel Yoder’s Nightbitch and Minna Dubin’s Mom Rage: The Everyday Crisis of Modern Motherhood shed light on the universality of maternal rage and the systemic challenges that underpin this emotional upheaval. These narratives validated my experiences, offering a sense of solidarity in a world that often dismisses or vilifies maternal anger.
The exploration of female rage, as depicted in these literary works, provided a nuanced perspective on the complexities of womanhood and motherhood. Through the lens of fictional characters grappling with primal instincts and societal pressures, I found a mirror reflecting my own struggles and a pathway to self-acceptance. The acknowledgment of rage as a legitimate response to external pressures and internal conflicts offered a sense of liberation from the stifling expectations imposed on mothers.
As I navigated the tumultuous seas of maternal anxiety and societal scrutiny, I discovered a paradoxical sense of empowerment in embracing my fears and honoring my vulnerabilities. The realization that my worries held a kernel of truth, a potent force that could reshape my reality, imbued me with a newfound sense of agency. While the external challenges and systemic failures persist, I found solace in the act of acknowledging my fears and reclaiming my narrative amidst the chaos.
In a world fraught with uncertainties and judgment, where the demands of motherhood often eclipse the nuances of individual experiences, finding refuge in the realm of fiction allowed me to confront my inner demons and embrace the multiplicity of possibilities. Through the lens of fictional narratives, I unearthed a reservoir of strength and resilience, transcending the confines of societal expectations to forge a path guided by authenticity and self-compassion.