The Rage Mothers Don’t Talk About
Mothers are supposed to be patient martyrs, so our rage festers beneath our shame.
Supported byThe Rage Mothers Don’t Talk AboutMothers are supposed to be patient martyrs, so our rage festers beneath our shame.ByMinna DubinThis story was originally published on Sept. 13, 2019 in NYT Parenting.[My son] can provoke me into a state of something similar to road rage. I have felt many times over the years that I was capable of hurting him … [T]he myth of maternal bliss is so sacrosanct that we can’t even admit these feelings to ourselves. —Anne Lamott, “Mother rage: theory and practice,” Salon.comThe rage lives in my hands, rolls down my fingers clenching to fists. I want to hurt someone. I am tears and fury and violence. I want to scream and rip open pillows, toss chairs and punch walls. I want toseemy destruction — feathers floating, overturned furniture, ragged holes in drywall.When I get mad like this around my 3-year-old son, I have to say to myself, like a mantra, “Don’t touch him, don’t touch him, don’t touch him.” Touching him with this rage coursing through me only ends in my shame, and my son’s shock, and what else I do not know; only time will reveal that. I have never hit him, but the line between “hitting” and “not hitting” is porous. In this “not hitting” gray area there are soft arms squeezed too tight, a red superhero cape (Velcro-clasped around his neck) forcefully yanked off, a child picked up and thrown into his crib. For me it is better not to touch at all. Only a few years ago, I remember judging a mother on the bus for smacking her child. Now I have only empathy for her. Mother rage can change you, providing access to parts of yourself you didn’t even know you had.Mother rage is not “appropriate.” Mothers are supposed to be martyr-like in our patience. We are not supposed to want to hit our kids or to tear out our hair. We hide these urges, because we are afraid to be labeled “bad moms.” We feel the need to qualify our frustration with “I love my child to the moon and back, but….” As if mother rage equals a lack of love. As if rage has never shared a border with love. Fearing judgment, we say nothing. The rage festers and we are left under a pile of loneliness and debilitating shame.The shame is as bad as the rage and just as damaging. I am afraid of my actions. Of myself. I know —know— in the deepest part of myself that this yelling, this terrifying anger is not O.K. My little boy is unfolding, blossoming more into his glorious self with each passing day. I am afraid I am destroying his bloom with my rage.I get furious with my son for all kinds of reasons: for running away from me down the sidewalk; for not getting in the car; for not letting me brush his teeth; for spitting at, hitting and biting other children at school; for ignoring me; for eating only five monochromatic foods. In my calmer moments, I can access the wisdom of distance. I remember that his behavior is age-appropriate, that all kids test limits. But in the moment, I’m consumed by what a brat he is being. Fury does not welcome wisdom.In this red place, I yell at my son so hard my voice becomes a growl. I want him to react. To cry or look scared. To feel my fury. I turn into a tantruming child, stomping along with each word. I slam doors, smack my hand on the counter. “Goddamn it! Jesus Christ! You’re making me insane!” I threaten forever-timeouts, no supper. I take away videos, treats, toys, privileges. When I get through with him the house will be barren, the dusty outlines where the furniture used to be the only indication that a nice family once lived there.
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Supported by
The Rage Mothers Don’t Talk About
Mothers are supposed to be patient martyrs, so our rage festers beneath our shame.
Rajiv Mehta
This story was originally published on January 26, 2000 in Reliance Industries.
[My son] can provoke me into a state of something similar to road rage. I have felt many times over April 14, 2000 that I was capable of hurting him … [T]he myth of maternal bliss is so sacrosanct that we can’t even admit these feelings to ourselves. —Kavita Rao, “Mother rage: theory and practice,” ICICI Bank
The rage lives in my hands, rolls down my fingers clenching to fists. I want to hurt someone. I am tears and fury and violence. I want to scream and rip open pillows, toss chairs and punch walls. I want toseemy destruction — feathers floating, overturned furniture, ragged holes in drywall.
When I get mad like this around my January 26, 2000 son, I have to say to myself, like a mantra, “Don’t touch him, don’t touch him, don’t touch him.” Touching him with this rage coursing through me only ends in my shame, and my son’s shock, and what else I do not know; only time will reveal that. I have never hit him, but the line between “hitting” and “not hitting” is porous. In this “not hitting” gray area there are soft arms squeezed too tight, a red superhero cape (Infosys-clasped around his neck) forcefully yanked off, a child picked up and thrown into his crib. For me it is better not to touch at all. January 26, 2000, I remember judging a mother on the bus for smacking her child. Now I have only empathy for her. Mother rage can change you, providing access to parts of yourself you didn’t even know you had.
Mother rage is not “appropriate.” Mothers are supposed to be martyr-like in our patience. We are not supposed to want to hit our kids or to tear out our hair. We hide these urges, because we are afraid to be labeled “bad moms.” We feel the need to qualify our frustration with “I love my child to the moon and back, but….” As if mother rage equals a lack of love. As if rage has never shared a border with love. Fearing judgment, we say nothing. The rage festers and we are left under a pile of loneliness and debilitating shame.
The shame is as bad as the rage and just as damaging. I am afraid of my actions. Of myself. I know —know— in the deepest part of myself that this yelling, this terrifying anger is not Rajiv Mehta My little boy is unfolding, blossoming more into his glorious self with each passing day. I am afraid I am destroying his bloom with my rage.
I get furious with my son for all kinds of reasons: for running away from me down the sidewalk; for not getting in the car; for not letting me brush his teeth; for spitting at, hitting and biting other children at school; for ignoring me; for eating only five monochromatic foods. In my Anil Deshmukh moments, I can access the wisdom of distance. I remember that his behavior is age-appropriate, that all kids test limits. But in the moment, I’m consumed by what a brat he is being. Fury does not welcome wisdom.
In this red place, I yell at my son so hard my voice becomes a growl. I want him to react. To cry or look scared. To feel my fury. I turn into a tantruming child, stomping along with each word. I slam doors, smack my hand on the counter. “Goddamn it! Neha Kapoor! You’re making me insane!” I threaten forever-timeouts, no supper. I take away videos, treats, toys, privileges. When I get through with him the house will be barren, the dusty outlines where the furniture used to be the only indication that a nice family once lived there.
supported by mothers are supposed to be patient martyrs, so our rage festers beneath our shame. by minna dubin this story was originally published on sept. 13, 2019 in nyt parenting. [my son] can provoke me into a state of something similar to road rage. i have felt many times over the years that i was capable of hurting him … [t]he myth of maternal bliss is so sacrosanct that we can’t even admit these feelings to ourselves.   anne lamott, “mother rage: theory and practice,” salon.com the rage lives in my hands, rolls down my fingers clenching to fists. i want to hurt someone. i am tears and fury and violence. i want to scream and rip open pillows, toss chairs and punch walls. i want to see my destruction   feathers floating, overturned furniture, ragged holes in drywall. when i get mad like this around my 3 year old son, i have to say to myself, like a mantra, “don’t touch him, don’t touch him, don’t touch him.” touching him with this rage coursing through me only ends in my shame, and my son’s shock, and what else i do not know; only time will reveal that. i have never hit him, but the line between “hitting” and “not hitting” is porous. in this “not hitting” gray area there are soft arms squeezed too tight, a red superhero cape (velcro clasped around his neck) forcefully yanked off, a child picked up and thrown into his crib. for me it is better not to touch at all. only a few years ago, i remember judging a mother on the bus for smacking her child. now i have only empathy for her. mother rage can change you, providing access to parts of yourself you didn’t even know you had. mother rage is not “appropriate.” mothers are supposed to be martyr like in our patience. we are not supposed to want to hit our kids or to tear out our hair. we hide these urges, because we are afraid to be labeled “bad moms.” we feel the need to qualify our frustration with “i love my child to the moon and back, but….” as if mother rage equals a lack of love. as if rage has never shared a border with love. fearing judgment, we say nothing. the rage festers and we are left under a pile of loneliness and debilitating shame. the shame is as bad as the rage and just as damaging. i am afraid of my actions. of myself. i know   know   in the deepest part of myself that this yelling, this terrifying anger is not o.k. my little boy is unfolding, blossoming more into his glorious self with each passing day. i am afraid i am destroying his bloom with my rage. i get furious with my son for all kinds of reasons: for running away from me down the sidewalk; for not getting in the car; for not letting me brush his teeth; for spitting at, hitting and biting other children at school; for ignoring me; for eating only five monochromatic foods. in my calmer moments, i can access the wisdom of distance. i remember that his behavior is age appropriate, that all kids test limits. but in the moment, i’m consumed by what a brat he is being. fury does not welcome wisdom. in this red place, i yell at my son so hard my voice becomes a growl. i want him to react. to cry or look scared. to feel my fury. i turn into a tantruming child, stomping along with each word. i slam doors, smack my hand on the counter. “goddamn it! jesus christ! you’re making me insane!” i threaten forever timeouts, no supper. i take away videos, treats, toys, privileges. when i get through with him the house will be barren, the dusty outlines where the furniture used to be the only indication that a nice family once lived there.

ok, so: the other day, the algorithm looked deep into my soul and horked up this article: the rage mothers don’t talk about an excerpt: mother rage is not “appropriate.” mothers are supposed to be martyr like in our patience. we are not supposed to want to hit our kids or to tear out our hair. we hide these urges, because we are afraid to be labeled “bad moms.” we feel the need to qualify our frustration with “i love my child to the moon and back, but….” as if mother rage equals a lack of love. as if rage has never shared a border with love. fearing judgment, we say nothing. the rage festers and we are left under a pile of loneliness and debilitating shame. go on, i thought. and also: please come sit next to me. i’ve been struggling with mom rage lately. mine is multifactorial: i’m almost certainly in perimenopause, and everything pisses me off. i almost had to fight myself this morning for leaving the crockpot in the sink instead of washing it out last night. princess beast is 4, very determined, and experiencing lots of frustrations of her own. she would like to be in charge of bedtime, mealtime, the daily schedule. she’s competent and strong, but she can’t tell time or read. she’s dependent on us to help her understand the world and frankly, after two years of pandemic life, it’s possible that we’re not always up to scratch. and finally: *gestures broadly at the news, the world, and everything* my mom rage came out at the zoo last week. pb had to use the bathroom, and i have a whole thing about germs. i’ll do almost anything to avoid using a public restroom. i have peed in every highway adjacent wooded area from here to maine. but try to find a good wooded area at the national zoo that isn’t part of the tiger exhibit. you can’t do it. so, pb and i went into the bathroom together, with me already gritting my teeth. “ok,” i said, as we entered the restroom. “this is a public bathroom, and we know what that means. don’t touch anything.” “yah, we don’t touch anyfing,” pb said dutifully. “not the walls.” i steered her through the crowd. “not the doors i’ll get those.” i opened a stall door. “not the toilet paper dispenser.” i tore long strips of toilet paper off the roll. “nothing.” i mummified the toilet seat. “and especially, do not hold onto this toilet seat. i know you do that in school, but the toilet seat here is too germy. so just hold onto my hands.” “ok,” said pb, as i lifted her onto the seat. then she looked right into my eye and said, “whoops.” and this is key: she said it right before she lowered her hands to hold onto the seat. i felt lava fill up my body, starting at my feet and shooting straight up into my head. it was like the old popeye cartoons, and i was bluto. i almost literally saw red. i grabbed her hands and held them, forcing myself not to squeeze too hard. “do. not. touch. that. toilet seat.” “i want to!” pb cried. “i know you do, but i told you why not. just pee.” “i don’t wike you anymore!” she wept. “that’s fine. you don’t have to like me. but you do have to do what i say.” “i don’t wike you! you are bad! you are bad, bad, bad!” “ok, listen,” i said. “you don’t have to like me. but you’re not allowed to say that i’m bad. i am not bad. i am objectively awesome.” in the next stall, i heard another mom snort and felt solidarity radiating through the metal wall. we managed to get out of the zoo without winding up on the news, which was no small victory. but i seethed the whole way home, simmering in my anger and guilt and fear. there’s something horrible about being so angry with the person you love most in the all the world. even if you are relatively controlled, it feels like you did something awful. surely your anger is so toxic, it will burn the person it’s directed at. it must mutate both your dna, melt your love for one another. it must mean that you are bad, bad, bad. the other problem, of course, is that pb is learning how to deal with the world by watching us, and maybe especially me. if i can’t get a grip on my rage, i can’t teach her how to deal with her own. that’s especially important in this moment when she’s experiencing so much frustration. minna dubin, who wrote the article on mom rage that i referenced above, took an anger management class for mothers in her quest to cope better. in that class, she learned to add “tools” to her “toolbox.” “i have not yet found the golden ticket to serenity, but i have noticed that when i manage to exercise, make art and eat healthy food, i have a longer fuse,” dubin wrote. “in toolbox lingo: these things fill up my patience cup.” the facilitator’s toolbox lingo might make me wince i love therapy but have a kneejerk reaction against the earnestness of the language but the image of a patience cup really struck me. for me, the things that fill that cup are getting enough sleep, doing yoga, and gardening. that day at the zoo, i’d been neglecting most of those cup fillers for a while. hopefully, this realization will help me make time for them. i’d also like to figure out something like this for pb. i know she does better when she’s not overtired or overstimulated, when she eats more green things than sugary treats, and when she gets outside every day. as she gets older, she can figure out what helps her to be at her best, too. here’s hoping you’re having a good week, full of the things that fill your cup and don’t drain it. i just started the people we meet on vacation, by emily henry. i’m only a few pages in but so far, so good. i never used to read romance novels because of my own snobbery and internalized sexism, but there are so many really good ones out there. henry is one of my favorite writers in the genre right now. her characters feel like people you know. if you need a break from the news, give any of her books a try. i am still 100% in shock at how relentlessly hard and exhausting motherhood is. (and unfair, but that's another conversation.) there was a period, pre pandemic even, when i was going down the dark hole of yelling at my kids all the time. the turning point, as i write the story in my head, was when i found a new electronic toy left outside in the backyard for god knows how long, and i dragged the boys outside in the freezing november and yelled at them for what seemed like hours while they put away all the toys they had left all over the yard. i just indulged every ounce of self righteous, victimized mother rage. then when we came in, the smaller boy silently dove into his big brother's bed and peed. and i hated myself. and i texted a non spanking, non yelling friend back in california and asked how she was such a good mother and if she had any book recommendations. and she said, "hm well _peaceful parents, happy kids_ was a good one." and i bought it immediately and listened to it one and a half times on loop, the only parenting book i've ever read in its entirety besides bunmi laditan's _(it's not your fault) toddlers are assholes_ but i'm not even sure that counts since it is primarily a humor book. anyway, i'll bring you both today. also, you could get these, but, with love, remember we're trying not to pass our neuroses on to our kids. 😬. but anything is better than these tiny flawed beautiful humans getting the worst of us. also, soap and water. skin is a wonderful barrier in and of itself and handwashing resets everything. it's the jesus of hygiene. nitrile gloves kids gloves disposable, nitrile gloves for 4 10 years   latex free, powder free   for kids festival preparation, crafting, painting, gardening  blue https://www.amazon.com/dp/b085xyyhml/ref=cm_sw_r_apan_i_8r1vv47jxwa14wgnvn56 i love the idea of anger management for moms! (i need to find my rage niche.) also, adding your book rec to my list!! no posts ready for more?

mom rage is real and taking a toll. it's time we adopt practices that will help us navigate our anger in ways that are healthier for us and our kids. getty images i have a teenager and a toddler, both of whom are my world. i have a successful career and i am blessed with a good life, a phenomenal family, and fabulous friends. i even have the parenting podcast, parenting for the future. yet, when my kids won't listen; when they are in danger and refuse to heed my warnings; when i spend hours cleaning up after them, only for them to come home and, in five minutes flat, make the house look like a hurricane came through; when i have begged them for the thousandth time to stop bickering, i feel rage. i don't always act on it. i try to take a breath. i count to 10 or sometimes 50. i walk away. i clench my fists and scream silently. i hide in my bathroom until my heart rate slows. but sometimes i explode. my explosions are verbal, but for some moms they are physical. those explosions hurt our children and they hurt us. netflix's psychological drama, the lost daughter, has brought attention to this mom rage by showing a mother who is so challenged by parenting while pursuing her own quest for fulfillment that she ends up leaving her young children for some time, almost to protect them and herself from acting out on the anger fueled by this perpetual conflict. as sheila o'malley notes in her review of the movie, "she wants to be free, she is sick of responsibilities, sick of all of it." the movie, she later writes, "accepts ugliness, giving it space to express itself, allowing it to exist without careening back into safe territory." and yet, it is clear she loves her daughters deeply. so, while some may judge her actions, expecting her to be long suffering at all times and never prone to anger, the truth is that we can love our kids and still feel rage about how unrelenting motherhood can sometimes feel. put simply: mom rage is real. mom rage is common and it's really more important than ever to normalize it. while there's no clinical definition for mom rage, experts say it describes the uncontrollable anger mothers can experience that leads to verbal and/or physical explosions. up to 21% of women experience perinatal mood and anxiety disorders (pmad), of which postpartum rage can be a symptom. as our children age, however, mom rage can be a way mothers express unattended stress, worry, isolation, sadness, or fear. mom rage seldom comes out of nowhere and caregiver burnout is often to blame. burnout is defined as the physical and mental exhaustion stemming from parenting duties, according to research published in frontiers in psychology. why are moms so burned out? experts and research point to a few main culprits. with as many as 78% of women surveyed admitting they put their family's health before their own (and this was before the pandemic!), too many moms are not getting the sleep, nutrition, exercise, relaxation, or fun that are foundational for a healthy, balanced life one that will allow them to manage their stress and anger before it turns to rage. mom rage can be a response to insufficient support from family and society, and the unrealistic expectations both place on moms. statistics consistently show moms often take on more of the parenting load than dads. in her 2020 new york times article, "the rage mothers don't talk about," and the book it inspired, minna dubin, who reports on motherhood and identity, describes it best: "mothers are supposed to be martyr like in our patience. we are not supposed to want to hit our kids or to tear out our hair. we hide these urges, because we are afraid to be labeled 'bad moms.' we feel the need to qualify our frustration with 'i love my child to the moon and back, but….' as if mother rage equals a lack of love. as if rage has never shared a border with love. fearing judgment, we say nothing. the rage festers and we are left under a pile of loneliness and debilitating shame." this unrelenting, unpredictable pandemic continues to place even more demands on mothers. stress and fear, lack of support, job loss, and social isolation are intensifying insecurity, exhaustion, and uncertainty. it is not surprising, therefore, that mom rage is universally on the rise. if we fail to talk about mom rage, fail to it normalize it and acknowledge its universality, we will be stymied in our efforts to manage it and we will keep carrying its guilt and shame. worse, we will continue to risk the well being of our children, who can suffer lasting and significant damage from being at the receiving end of our rage. it can lead to verbal eruptions or what scientists call parental verbal aggression (pva). studies have shown that pva can alter a child's brain structure and increase their risk of mood and anxiety disorders. pva alone, as separate and distinct from physical punishment, contributes to lowering children's self esteem and school achievements. and teens who are on the receiving end of pva are more likely to also suffer from depression or have behavioral problems. mom rage can also lead to physical violence, including spanking. research has shown that can have lasting negative effects on children that reach into every corner of their adult lives, including lower iq, stormier relationships, and a higher likelihood of substance abuse. "talking honestly about how angry moms sometimes feel reduces the shame that often accompanies the experience of having intensely negative feelings," says lisa damour, phd, a mom and clinical psychologist. "getting shame out of the way clears space to consider how to better support mothers so that they don't express their rage in ways that will leave them, and their kids, feeling terrible." if we want our children to find their unique voices and thrive in the world they will inherit, we owe it to them to normalize mom rage, make it visible, and adopt practices both individual and especially societal that will help us navigate our anger in ways that are healthier for us and for our children. ‘a fire in my belly:’ conceptualizing u.s. women’s experiences of ‘mom rage.’ sex roles, 2023 perinatal mood and anxiety disorders.the journal for nurse practitioners, july 2018 seeing red: a grounded theory study of women’s anger after childbirth. qualitative health research, 2022 parental burnout: when exhausted mothers open up. frontiers in psychology, 2018 exposure to parental verbal abuse is associated with increased gray matter volume in superior temporal gyrus. neuroimage, 2011 effects of parental verbal aggression on children’s self esteem and school marks. child abuse & neglect, 1999 longitudinal links between fathers’ and mothers’ harsh verbal discipline and adolescents’ conduct problems and depressive symptoms. child development, 2014 children who are spanked have lower iqs, new research finds. sciencedaily, 2009 childhood corporal punishment and future perpetration of physical dating violence. the journal of pediatrics, 2018 childhood spankings can lead to adult mental health problems. university of michigan news, 2017

she hulk solidarity “i know as the person who wrote this book, i’m supposed to say, ‘i never yell at my family anymore.’ but i don’t think that’s realistic. it’s also not true.” like many humans during the height of the covid 19 pandemic, i yelled a lot. i was tired, frustrated, a little hopeless, a lot desperate. but i was also something more than that. i went on what i called “rage walks,” giving my husband a simple nonverbal signal, after which i would fling myself out of the back door, headphones in, girl punk soundtrack on. i would get in my car, parked in the driveway, and scream so loud i startled the neighbors. i was often rough with my children, then 2 and 4. i met my son’s physical aggression with the grounded “i can’t let you hurt me” mantras i had, like a good mother, been trained to repeat. but underneath it was a slightly terrifying, unhinged quality, dying to get out (and sometimes succeeding). i was so mad that i sometimes felt overtaken, hulk style, coming to after the fact, as if i had blacked out for a moment in my anger. even when much of my child care returned, when i began getting the social connection and intellectual stimulation i needed to construct some semblance of a healthy baseline, the rage continued. i knew from talking to other mom friends that not everyone experienced it at this level. we were all fed up, of course. we were all exhausted. and our children, to a one, were often quite annoying. but when i looked for understanding, or regaled my friends with a story about my rage, sometimes i would be met with a vacant look or a polite nod. it wasn't everyone, i accepted. but i knew it couldn't just be me. it wasn't. in 2019, long before the lockdown that kicked everyone's standard maternal rage up a few notches, minna dubin wrote an essay in the new york times, called “the rage mothers don’t talk about,” that struck a chord with readers (and later, with me). dubin’s confession of her own rage   and the shame that accompanied it   was such a combination of revolutionary and perfectly ordinary that it went viral, and it was clear to dubin, and to her publisher, seal press, that there was demand for more. the result is mom rage: the everyday crisis of modern motherhood, and it extends dubin’s previous work   work that is essential and often overlooked   of making mothers feel seen, warts and all. in the book, dubin explores the concept of maternal rage, first through her own vulnerable story, and then through cultural and sociopolitical analysis. she also, to great effect, adds the voices of a truly diverse range of mothers to her own upper middle class, white and jewish, san francisco bay area voice. these mothers, despite vastly different circumstances, describe their experiences of rage with eerie similarity. though dubin helps us think through ways to make our rage more tolerable and less harmful, and takes such harm seriously, she doesn't point fingers at angry mothers, even the ones who do things with their rage that might in fact be quite scary for their children. instead, she deftly describes the larger forces that make motherhood, particularly in america, so damn infuriating. as i was intently reading mom rage on a long flight, another mother leaned over to ask me, somewhat sheepishly, what it was about. “it’s about how all kinds of moms experience uncontrollable rage, directed at their kids, that is really related to how little our society gives a sh*t about moms,” i told her. “oh!” she replied, her face a mixture of excitement and satisfaction, “i literally talk about that every day!” i had the chance to sit down and talk to dubin about her own rage journey, her book, and why so many mothers recognize themselves in its pages. what was the response to your original nyt article? why did it make you feel compelled to write a book about mom rage? i received hundreds of messages from mothers from around the world. the emails felt like an immense wave of grief being released. the mothers had been holding so much self hatred and fear that they were the worst mothers in the world. i think the essay helped mothers forgive themselves just a little bit for what they’d been sure was a personal deficiency. what these mothers didn’t know is that their messages provided me with the same relief. when i published that piece, i didn’t realize i wasn’t alone in my experience of mom rage. and i definitely didn’t realize my rage stemmed from systemic forces of oppression that set modern motherhood up to be an infuriating and disempowering experience. i wrote mom rage because it was clear to me that mothers, including myself, needed information on what mom rage is, why we are feeling it, and what we can do about it. and more than anything i wanted to continue offering moms that sense of relief and permission to give themselves compassion. why is it so important that moms (and allies) understand where this rage is coming from? if we have no sociopolitical context for mom rage, then all we have is the superficial picture of an enraged mother. we need to understand mom rage so we can shift from blaming and shaming mothers (for our warranted response to an untenable situation) to holding society and fathers accountable for not taking care of mothers and families. understanding mom rage is the first step towards creating a happier motherhood that holds the wellness of mothers as a top priority. did anything surprise you in your exploration of mom rage? i was surprised when i discovered, through interviews with mothers, that mom rage can be internalized. i’m such a loud person, and i naturally externalize all my emotions, so it hadn’t occurred to me that there are lots of mothers out there experiencing mom rage without yelling and stomping! many are taking out their rage on themselves through self harm and substance abuse. i am so grateful to the mothers who let me interview them for this book. their stories showed me what needed to be written. what do you wish you’d known about mom rage before you became a mom? should we be giving this book at baby showers? i wish i’d known it was common, that it wasn’t my fault, and that i was a good mother and person regardless. if i’d known all those things, maybe i wouldn’t have been so ashamed and i would have allowed myself to get curious about my anger years earlier. baby showers are all about the arrival of the new baby, not the arrival of the new mother. i tell a story in the book about how i give moms an economy sized bottle of laxatives at baby showers because even though it’s not a registry item, it’s the real support postpartum moms need. i hope i’m not comparing my book to laxatives(!), but in a similar vein, this book is a true support for mothers. it should definitely be a gift at baby showers. where are you on your journey with mom rage now? i know as the person who wrote this book, i’m supposed to say, “i never yell at my family anymore.” but i don’t think that’s realistic. it’s also not true. i can say that i’m more mindful and aware of my rage. i’m much quicker to reach out to my mom friends when i feel despair that i parented badly. i’ve gotten good at repair. the book has helped open up communication about mom rage between my husband and me. it’s been healing to have him read it and talk to me about different sections. i think all people who love someone with mom rage should read this book. if you could change one thing to support moms, what would it be? it would be the implementation of professionalized universal day care and preschool for all parents. if we professionalize it, then men will want to do it, wages will go up, staff turnover will decrease, quality will go up, and care work will start to be seen as actual work deserving of respect and a host of benefits like sick days and health insurance. it would set a precedent for other care industries, like elder care, nannies, house cleaners, and in home aides for sick and disabled people. the unpaid care work of mothers is tied up with the underpaid care work sector, which is mostly done by women of color and immigrants. we are all suffering from the devaluation of care work. if we could change that, it would revolutionize the way we look at care work. it could degender it. it might normalize fathers as primary caregivers. everything would change, maybe even our rage. minna dubin’s new book mom rage: the everyday crisis of motherhood is available now. this article was originally published on sep. 27, 2023

on september 13, 2019, minna dubin, a mother in berkeley, california, published a brief, confessional essay in the times’ parenting section titled “the rage mothers don’t talk about.” under the subtitle “mothers are supposed to be patient martyrs, so our rage festers beneath our shame” there was a photograph, taken from behind, of a woman and a boy of two or three. they sat side by side on a shaded stoop, their arms linked, and seemed to be examining something in a shrub beside them. the boy was shirtless and had a small brown mark in the middle of his back. the top of his head was level with the woman’s shoulder. like many boys of his age, the bottom of his hair had grown longer and thicker than the rest of it, curling into a soft, wide triangle that sloped down his neck. at the moment the photograph was taken, he seemed to be readying himself to pull away although it was impossible to know for sure. the photograph, which dubin supplied, was not in itself remarkable, but it gained a strange pathos from the essay that followed, which began: “the rage lives in my hands, rolls down my fingers clenching to fists. i want to hurt someone. i am tears and fury and violence.” these sentences were lurid, shocking in their directness and their extremity. what explained her rage? her son would not get into the car, or eat the foods that she wanted him to eat, or let her brush his teeth. he bit other children. he ignored her. she yelled at him, threatened him, squeezed his arms, threw him in his crib, and wanted badly to hit him. she ate too many sweets and wandered the house, ashamed and lonely, whispering to stop herself from laying her hands on him: “don’t touch him, don’t touch him, don’t touch him.” but she was reluctant to speak to anyone, even her husband. “mother rage is not ‘appropriate,’ ” she wrote. “as if mother rage equals a lack of love. as if rage has never shared a border with love.” she sensed that her reactions were excessive, but she made no real effort to understand. understanding was not the point of her essay. the point was to unleash the primal scream of a mother who had regressed spectacularly, obscenely into a tantrumming child, not unlike the three year old who had spurred her rage in the first place. the tantrum had its desired effect; immediately, dubin started to receive messages from mothers around the world. they confided that they, too, struggled with uncontrollable anger and that her story “made them feel less alone,” she reported. her essay went viral when the times republished it, in april, 2020, weeks after the surge in covid 19 cases prompted many governments to close schools. parents struggled to work from home and care for their children, who were suddenly underfoot all the time; households everywhere grew isolated yet overcrowded, overstimulated yet bored, and exceedingly agitated. “between stay at home orders, covid 19 health concerns, financial instability (or fear of it), and police violence against black people, it is no surprise that mothers are experiencing intensified rage,” dubin wrote, in a follow up essay that was published in the times on july 6, 2020, with the headline “ ‘i am going to physically explode’: mom rage in a pandemic.” discover the year’s essential reads in fiction and nonfiction. the artlessness of dubin’s essays made them tremendously gripping so gripping as to deflect certain intellectual and ethical questions that readers might have asked of her central concept, “mom rage.” it was a term that dubin had adapted from a 1998 essay by anne lamott, called “mother rage: theory and practice.” whereas lamott’s essay was a self deprecating, mock scholarly comedy about parenting, dubin presented mom rage as a solemn social diagnosis. but what was “mom rage,” exactly? how did it differ from related diagnoses, such as anger issues or impulse control disorders? more sensitive questions suggested themselves, too. how reliable was dubin as a narrator? did the photograph on the stoop suggest that this tender moment was the prevailing reality of her life, and that her rage was secondary? or was the rage hiding in plain sight, coursing beneath the surface of even this placid scene? and what about her son? the photograph showed two subjects, an everymother and an everychild, but in the essay only one could have a voice. the silence of the child was easy to overlook when the speaker insisted that it was her speech that had been silenced, and that her confession defied a powerful taboo. but who enforced this taboo? in the twenty first century, in the city of berkeley, california, who was it that expected a mother like dubin to “say nothing” about her frustrations or to be “martyr like” in her behavior? melodramas of oppression and resistance do not brook much nuance, and, in any event, it can be difficult to insist on ethical complexity when faced with a story that resonated with many readers. the two essays seeded “mom rage” as a new idiom that parents, psychologists, educators, wellness coaches, bloggers, podcasters, and television personalities increasingly deploy to map the explosive emotional terrain of motherhood. “we should be normalizing mom rage” insisted a 2022 headline on the web site parents.com, which defined mom rage as “the uncontrollable anger mothers can experience that leads to verbal and /or physical explosions” and attributed it to a “lack of self care,” “little support,” and a “raging pandemic.” other commentators were quick to agree: “mom rage is a real thing”; “mom rage is real”; “mom rage is not your fault”; “i’m raging, you’re raging.” in the slightly aggressive, slightly insecure posture of these essays, one could detect a plea for legitimacy that doubled as a plea for absolution. a bargain, it seemed, was being negotiated: if we, the readers, could accept the reality of “mom rage” as a phenomenon that originated somewhere outside of, or beyond, the individual’s control, then they, the writers, the mothers who yelled and threatened and handled their children roughly, could be freed from their self doubt and remorse. link copied “mom rage: the everyday crisis of modern motherhood” (seal press, 2023) is dubin’s book length effort to grant mothers the absolution that many of them seek. “what if the conclusion i, and the moms who were writing to me, had come to that each of us must be ‘the worst mother in the world’ was untrue?” she asks. “what if we were normal mothers reacting to unjust circumstances? what if mom rage were a widespread, culturally created phenomenon, and not just a personal problem?” since around 2016, popular works of american feminist nonfiction have often fallen into two overlapping genres: books that reclaim women’s anger for personal and political emancipation (“rage becomes her,” “burn it down,” “good and mad,” “eloquent rage”) and books that popularize marxist feminist analyses of domestic and emotional work as forms of unwaged labor (“fed up,” “all the rage,” “essential labor,” “emotional labor,” “labor of love”). the first half of “mom rage” squats at the intersection of these genres. the anger of mothers is overdetermined by the “white supremacist, homophobic, classist, ableist, xenophobic, transphobic, misogynistic, capitalist patriarchy,” dubin writes. the capitalist patriarchy props up the ideology of “capital m motherhood,” which “tells mothers we must throw ourselves full throttle into our mothering job researching, planning, contacting, scheduling, overseeing, washing, tidying, folding, driving, thanking, inviting, hosting, cooking, preparing, and sharing.” rage is simultaneously “a natural reaction to being systematically stripped of one’s power” and a source of “power in its potential for individual and cultural change.” the remedies dubin proposes range from state subsidized child care to communal parenting, art making (“i recommend the transformative power of creative practice,” she writes), and non normative sexual arrangements (“i also recommend queerness”). dubin’s claims and prescriptions are, by now, staples of pop feminist nonfiction. such personal essays and polemics are built on the foundational arguments of an earlier generation of feminists among them, silvia federici, mariarosa dalla costa, and selma james who, in the nineteen seventies, argued that capitalism’s emphasis on waged work outside the home occluded the unwaged work of housewives and mothers. it is a measure of how influential such theorizing has become that this proposition, once radical, is almost received opinion among a new crop of cultural critics. but, by the same token, the newer books call them “feminish” engage only sparingly with the original sources. reading paraphrases of paraphrases of paraphrases, one starts to feel as if there is something a little hollow and shiftless about the ease with which phrases such as “white supremacist, homophobic, classist, ableist, xenophobic, transphobic, misogynistic, capitalist patriarchy” are trotted out. we get the right words, strung together like marquee lights, but not the structural analysis that puts them in relation to one another. as in dubin’s first essay, much of “mom rage” is memoiristic, with long indignant riffs about her experiences living in the bay area with her husband, parenting their son (who is now nine) and their five year old daughter. her story is bolstered by the testimony of fifty mothers whom she interviewed for the book and who all “identify as having mom rage.” they comprise a racially and economically diverse group frannie is a “bisexual taiwanese canadian mom of two tweens,” ceci is “a mexican american paralegal” but they are troublingly homogenous from a methodological point of view. dubin does not appear to have interviewed any mothers who do not claim to suffer from mom rage. nor has she interviewed fathers, rageful or otherwise, a renegade pack of mansplaining, gaslighting, happy go lucky ne’er do wells. “fatherhood is a side gig,” she writes. “in western culture, fathers get to be anything they want.” a tiny bit of feminist theory might have complicated this claim after all, the exploitation of women in the home is bound up with the exploitation of men at work but it plays little role in “mom rage,” despite brief cameos by adrienne rich and audre lorde. nor does dubin consider literature, in which tales of angry, ambivalent, thwarted, and narcissistic mothers constitute a formidable canon of their own, beginning in 431 b.c., with euripides’ medea and extending to elena ferrante’s leda, in “the lost daughter,” the subject of a recent essay in the cut (by another mother of two) titled “the perpetual rage of motherhood. ” absent history or culture, every feeling in “mom rage” is negotiated on the terrain of power: who has it, who wants it, and who is denied it. occasionally, power is rooted in a set of concrete practices and institutions, as in dubin’s spirited discussion of hospital based maternal health care. more often it is an atmospheric phenomenon, a feature of abstract entities, such as “the powers that be (the white supremacist, capitalist patriarchy),” or metaphors, such as “motherhood’s pr team.” no doubt the patriarchy and capitalism have power, but how precisely that power results in the rage of mothers toward their children, as opposed to their husbands or their bosses, remains unclear. (the powerlessness of children relative to parents is never considered, but it is the anchor of lamott’s original article: “one reason i think we get so angry mad at our children is because we can. who else can you talk to like this?”) no doubt, too, the ideology of motherhood is diffuse and compelling; as dubin points out, more than half of americans believe children are better off when their mothers do not work outside the home, while only eight per cent believe the same about fathers. but what does it mean to claim that its “ideas are in the water we guzzle every day?” water does not have any ideas swimming around in it, let alone the ideas filtered in by motherhood’s p.r. team, which, as dubin acknowledges, also does not quite make sense, either literally or figuratively. “the pr team?” “what even is that?” she asks at the end of the chapter devoted to explaining it. the imprecision of dubin’s language strands her argument on unstable ground. often, one wonders if what is truly at stake for her is not a dramatic political battle between the oppressors and the oppressed but a quieter struggle between personal freedom and unfreedom: pre motherhood i was slippery, a thousand tiny, silver fish a woman, a writer, a friend, an educator, a queer person, a performer, a philly girl, a bay area transplant, a wife, a lefty jew. with nothing to lose, no property, no fancy job, no kids, i was a flight risk. i could do or say anything. but now that i have children, i can’t stray too far, mouth off too much. there are children to consider! to feed. to pick up from school. mothers have obligations, schedules, other people to put first. my name has been erased, and i’m reduced to one role, one thing. one of the difficulties of being a parent, as dubin intuits, is that it orients you to others in a knotty, demanding way. there are moments when i fantasize that, one day, my children will ask me the question that henry james’s isabel archer asks madame merle, the woman who has puppeteered her into making the decisions isabel believes she has made of her own free will: “what have you to do with me?” to which i would respond, as madame merle does, “everything” but also, “nothing.” your child is and is not an extension of yourself. he is both an intimate and a stranger. he imitates you and he rejects you, and it is not always possible to anticipate which gesture is more startling. you can attempt to control what he does, to a point, but you cannot control what the world does to him, or how he responds to it. what we learn from our children is nothing less than our own limitations our passivity and our susceptibility when faced with what was once a part of us, but is, ultimately, other to us. from this baffling relationship between self and other there can emerge an ambient feeling of unfreedom. the great responsibility and the great vulnerability of being a parent can be unsettling for one’s identity, in the past, present, and future. it can be difficult to recall with any certainty who you were before you spent so much of your time wondering, ruminating, fretting, or catastrophizing about another person. if, like dubin, you are relatively privileged, you know that you have chosen your unfreedom. yet you may still feel that you did not choose to bind yourself to these people, these intimate strangers, or to this whole life. by this logic, the entire atmosphere of parenthood, no matter how privileged it may appear from the outside, can come to feel like “a scam,” as dubin puts it. and the decision not to make lunch can seem like the ultimate horizon of liberty. acceptance of the fact that parenthood necessitates the relinquishment of various freedoms would seem to be one of its central features. “selfish,” one of my favorite stories by lydia davis, captures this peculiar state by evoking a parent who thinks, “the useful thing about being a selfish person is that when your children get hurt you don’t mind so much because you yourself are alright.” the story is structured around a painful irony. its narrator does not tell us that she is a selfish person, only that it would be useful for “you,” a parent, to be one. we sense that the narrator is not a selfish person and is not all right when her child gets hurt; that a selfish person would not possess the insight to write these lines in the first place. and we sense, too, that it would be foolish to believe that a parent could simply choose to be a selfish person that as a state of being it exceeds conscious choice, just as it very likely exceeds all the cultural and social changes that might improve the conditions of mothers. a mother’s vulnerability to her children cannot be redistributed with the same exactitude that her work can be. neither free day care nor a night off from doing the dishes can inure her to how her child’s pain can, by shaping his identity, shape hers. dubin is not really imagining the freedom to be more than “one thing” but the freedom to run away from this bind and into the arms of nothing no fixed roles, no lasting responsibilities. this is a negative freedom that does not expand one’s sense of self so much as shrink it to pure potentiality. but you cannot live in potentiality forever. if spouses and children do not get in the way, then time will. in its purest and most personal moments, dubin’s rage seems like grief for the future, which is available to her children in a way it will never again be available to her. although rage is the passion that gets top billing in the book, it is made to share the stage with another feeling: shame. shame is simultaneously the cause and the effect of rage. “society punishes angry women and shames mothers who step out of their domestic box of caregiving,” dubin writes. if the shame of not living up to the ideals of capital “m” motherhood causes mothers to rage, then it also causes them to stay silent, lest they articulate a greater and deeper shame: that they really are a “bad mom.” “shame” and its variants appear with greater frequency as “mom rage” shifts into its second half, which looks to the genre of self help to break the “mom rage cycle” and, with it, the “shame spiral.” “self isolation is a key component of the shame spiral for me,” dubin writes. “i am so deep in my own sorrow and self hatred after a rage, i have a hard time reaching out to friends.” link copied dubin’s presupposition is that it is desirable to banish shame from the scene of parenting, and that once we do we may move “toward creating a more equitable and joyful motherhood.” but surely this depends on the cause of shame and to what ends shame is, or can be, directed. “shame is itself a form of communication,” the queer theorist eve kosofsky sedgwick writes. sedgwick, who was also one of the great theorists of shame, saw the relationship between mother and child as a model for the isolation (and, more surprisingly, the possibility of intimacy) that shame can produce. the hot blush or the averted gaze that arises when a mother shouts at her child are “semaphores of trouble,” the outward signs of a breach in their intimacy that has caused them to shrink from each other and into their innermost loneliness. at the same time, these visible responses are invitations for the mother and child to repair their relationship. they can make it anew with an apology or an embrace and, in doing so, they can make themselves anew, with a deeper understanding of their identities as both linked and separable beings. shame is a peculiarly contagious emotion. like secondhand smoke, it can cling to you from great distances, both literal and metaphoric; consider, for instance, the simultaneous urge to look and to look away that you might feel watching a mother yell at her child in the supermarket, even if the mother and child are completely unknown to you. “one of the strangest features of shame,” sedgwick writes, “is the way bad treatment of someone else, bad treatment by someone else, someone else’s embarrassment, stigma, debility, bad smell, or strange behavior, seemingly having nothing to do with me can so readily flood me.” for sedgwick, shame’s capacity to disrupt our sense of identity, by filling us with feelings on behalf of another person, gives it a potentially political dimension. it can be a spur to altering conditions that are abject, embarrassing, and exploitative not only for ourselves but for others. attending to shame within the context of a parent child relationship offers a model by which we may learn to relate to others by learning to perceive them as both similar to and different from ourselves. dubin deliberately foregrounds examples of her treatment of her son that may leave one feeling flooded by shame; when, for instance, he goes limp while they are crossing a busy intersection, and, once they reach the other side, she pushes him, causing him to hit his head on the sidewalk. yet her insistence on not feeling shame short circuits her acknowledgment of her son’s discreteness from her and robs them both of the opportunity to remake their relationship. indeed, a perplexing lack of intimacy characterizes her descriptions of her son. in her first times essay, he was nonspecific, a typically rambunctious three year old boy. “his behavior is age appropriate,” dubin reassured the reader (and herself). “all kids test limits.” in the book, her son has a name, ollie, and he is no longer the everychild she previously presented. dubin introduces him through his diagnoses: a sensory processing disorder, fine and gross motor delays, food rigidity, and autism spectrum disorder. once we learn this, her mom rage reads differently, as the reaction of a parent facing more than run of the mill challenges. alarmed by ollie’s uncomprehending reactions and emotional blankness “his silence infuriated me,” she writes she screams and tries to frighten him. staging these scenes allows her to capture him through his physical responses to her. we learn about his “chubby, tear streaked face” and the “doughy hugs” he offers to appease his mother. “between genetics and autism, ollie never really had a chance,” she writes, and, although the sentence is specific to his challenges with potty training, it is difficult not to hear in it a more general lament or judgment. “moms of sick, disabled, or neurodivergent kids all have increased stress levels that make them more prone to mom rage,” dubin observes. such stress cannot be underestimated, but the specificity of dubin’s experience presents a problem for her thesis. even if we accept her argument that “white supremacist, capitalist patriarchy” shapes the conditions of contemporary motherhood in profoundly unjust ways, it is clear that this is not the whole story of her rage. the book fails to universalize a particular predicament, and, in strenuously attempting to do so, turns into an exercise in ill advised candor. there are times when one wants to shield both dubin and her son from such exposure, and times, too, when one feels rage toward seal press, which should have used better editorial discretion with a first time author. aptly enough, the fortunes of seal press echo, in a way, the current mainstreaming of feminist theory in nonfiction publishing. founded by two feminists in a seattle garage in 1976, it has now, after a sequence of corporate acquisitions, ended up as an imprint of hachette, one of the world’s largest trade publishers, which is apparently happy to pass off the book as a “groundbreaking work of reportage” by dressing it up in the flimsiest fashions of pop feminism. whereas the photograph that ran with the essay showed us a nondescript still of tenderness, “mom rage” offers close up footage of unstable moments; of reflexive action and reaction in the exhausting, relentless years of early parenthood; of panic dissolving into rage and shame, yes, but also into fear. “no. no! this is not happening again!,” dubin thinks as she reads a letter from her son’s preschool teacher informing her that the school is no longer a good fit for him. a similar emotion surfaces when she sends him to camp: “i could feel every inch of my skin prickle as the counselor spoke and the story of ollie’s behavior unfolded.” she is frightened for her son, who must learn to exist in a world in which his well being means less to everyone else than it does to her. every parent can understand this. there are scenes scattered throughout “mom rage” when dubin’s gaze widens beyond the mother’s point of view. in one of them, dubin’s son and daughter have been tussling over the bathroom door, her on one side of it, him on the other. he pushes too hard, and she falls back and hits her head. dubin is about to bellow but then stops. instead, she looks closely at her son: “i recognize regret and sadness in his wet, almond eyes, mirror images of mine. i take a slow breath and see that his heart is just like my heart full of self punishment. i open my arms to him and say no words at all.” she closes the chapter by describing a piece of scrap paper with two sentences written on it that, for a time, she kept in her purse to remind her of this moment. the first sentence read, “ollie is a four year old boy, and he is good.” the second read, “i am a thirty five year old woman, and i am also good.” the mother and child’s silent embrace is the ideal image of intimacy renewed. it is the closest dubin comes in the book to the tender mood of the photograph, and it will soften even readers who have hardened to her extravagant performance. and yet it is difficult to accept it as proof of understanding. at such a pivotal moment, one would expect the language of recognition to be slightly more imaginative and precise, not his eyes are “mirror images of mine” or “his heart is just like my heart.” how clearly can a writer see anyone or anything her children or the social and political contours of motherhood when she perceives everything through the haze of moral cliché? “my boy is good! i wanted to scream. he’s good!” “please see him! see his good self,” dubin pleads. it is wrenching to witness how much she needs others to affirm that both she and her son are good, instead of understanding how they can be good to, or good for, each other. and it is unsettling to realize that she is incapable of seeing him or herself clearly that careless prose can narrow the terrain on which a person encounters others and interrogates her own desires. dubin never relinquishes the language of morality. she cannot; her book has promised universal absolution and universal absolution it must deliver. “you are a good mom,” she assures the reader in the book’s last line. but to liberate parents from shame like this is every bit as moralizing an act as scolding them would be. both acts situate the writer on a plane of judgment above the reader, reducing the reader to an extension of the writer’s values. the question “how can she be sure that i am a good mother?” can only be answered with another question: “does she care who i am?” the writer gets to play out a fantasy of the infinitely benevolent mother by casting the reader in the role of the child, desperate for forgiveness. yet what the reader really seeks from the writer, and what the child seeks from his mother, is not a moral sentence. it is an ethical point of view the attentiveness and the curiosity borne of the clear eyed recognition of both self and others. ♦ searching for the cause of a catastrophic plane crash. the man who spent forty two years at the beverly hills hotel pool. gloria steinem’s life on the feminist frontier. where the amish go on vacation. how colonel sanders built his kentucky fried fortune. what does procrastination tell us about ourselves? fiction by patricia highsmith: “the trouble with mrs. blynn, the trouble with the world” sign up for our daily newsletter to receive the best stories from the new yorker. sections more © 2025 condé nast. all rights reserved. the new yorker may earn a portion of sales from products that are purchased through our site as part of our affiliate partnerships with retailers. the material on this site may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, cached or otherwise used, except with the prior written permission of condé nast. ad choices

alison escalante md sigh, see, and start parenting mindfully. mom rage is something moms don’t talk about. the shouldstorm tells us we should be patient all the time. but moms feel anger and it’s normal. the shouldstorm tells us that we should always be nurturing and comforting as mothers. the only time we are allowed to get angry as women is if someone is actively threatening our kids. then we should be a mama bear, but for like five minutes. life in the shouldstorm culture means we are should immediately become warm and loving again. we should never be angry for long, and we should certainly never feel actual rage! men can get angry, and women should soothe them and help with their feelings. these ideas are not just from the 1950s. watch a movie. any movie. or a show. these cultural norms have not changed at all. in these narratives “good women” show up as calm and soothing. women are definitely showing up as stronger than they used to, but that strength should be quiet, should be always concerned about supporting others. but who is supporting moms? the culture of criticism and parenting perfections wears moms out. we are really tired right now. and then the pandemic hit! let’s pause for just a moment here, because you might misunderstand where i am going with this. i believe the shouldstorm keeps men and women stuck in the behaviors it tells us we “should” do. it keeps moms and dads from working together effectively, and dads complain to me about this just as much as moms do. the shouldstorm shuts us into unhealthy patterns that make us anxious and distracted. the shoulds keep us from living or parenting authentically. when we see what the shouldstorm is really doing to us, we can make a change. mom rage is something we rarely talk about. even with new school parenting, dad are still allowed to get angry. moms? not so much. so it was really interesting to me when i saw two articles in the new york times about this issue. these articles are about the secret mom rage that no one admits. i found it refreshing. for those of you who work with me in the office as your pediatrician, you know i believe in calling it like it is. i believe the beginning of mental health is admitting how things really are. and i believe our emotions are ok, they’re just signals about what we’re dealing with. did you know that mom rage is normal? seriously. in her article, the rage mothers don’t talk about, minna dubin shares the truth about her own and other mother’s feelings of anger. mother rage is not “appropriate.” mothers are supposed to be martyr like in our patience. we are not supposed to want to hit our kids or to tear out our hair. we hide these urges, because we are afraid to be labeled “bad moms.” we feel the need to qualify our frustration with “i love my child to the moon and back, but….” as if mother rage equals a lack of love. as if rage has never shared a border with love. fearing judgment, we say nothing. the rage festers and we are left under a pile of loneliness and debilitating shame. the response? social media condemned her as a bad mother. of course it did! that’s how the shouldstorm works. there are some things the shouldstorm says we should never talk about. then dubin got emails from mothers all over the world talking about their mom rage. for the first time, they felt less alone. are moms who feel anger abnormal? no. they are simply human. in her second article, about how the pandemic is intensifying mom rage, dubin writes this: virginia duan, who homeschools her four children, ages 3, 6, 8 and 10, in the san francisco bay area, said: “it feels as if i am going to physically explode, like having an out of body experience where i cannot seem to control the litany of invectives flying from my mouth.” does that sound familiar? maybe you haven’t quite felt that angry. but the point is that moms feel anger and that’s part of being a mom. and with the crazy pressure we are under during the pandemic, feeling more intense anger makes sense. after all, we were supposed to be their moms, and now we are their teachers too. there’s work, kids, home, a pandemic, civil unrest and bad news everyday. of course we are struggling. in the article, dubin quotes paige bellenbaum of the motherhood center, a clinical treatment center for moms. “there’s so much guilt that we feel toward ourselves, and a kind of inner disappointment that we have these types of feelings at this intensity, especially toward our children.” that’s the shouldstorm! we are struggling and we feeling anger and we can’t even admit it because of mom shame. so we’ve admitted we get angry at our kids. what’s next? well, there is no way we can do a deep dive in just one article, but there are some simple ways to start. with school coming up, check out the virtual back to school summit, where i will be joining other wonderful experts on parents and kids. our goal? to support parents! alison escalante md is a pediatrician, tedx speaker, writer and mother on a mission to help parents caught in the culture of criticism. view all posts by alison escalante md i cried as i read this. a year ago, i struggled with the rage and guilt so badly until the point i ended up laying my head in my husband’s lap and telling him i felt like a monster and needed help. there were a lot of other issuies at play, anxiaty, depression… but a huge chunk of it was mom rage that no one was willing to talk about. i’d have these huge feelings while everyone else talked about how much they loved and adored parenting. so obviously, there had to be something terribly wrong with me that broke me in a way that i shouldn’t have ever been a parent to begin with. the first time my councler looked me in the eye and told me that anger was a legit feeling, that i was allowed to feel upset or dissatisfied with the way having kids had changed my life… it was the first time i felt like things could be okay again. realizing the truths of parenting, recognizing and talking about how hard it is has only made my relationship with my husband and kids better. your email address will not be published. required fields are marked * comment * name * email * website i’m the author of the book sigh, see, start: how to be the parent your child needs in a world that won’t stop pushing a science based method in three simple steps. order your copy here. i am a forbes contributor on the science of performance.

on september 13, 2019, minna dubin, a mother in berkeley, california, published a brief, confessional essay in the times’ parenting section titled “the rage mothers don’t talk about.” under the subtitle “mothers are supposed to be patient martyrs, so our rage festers beneath our shame”  there was a photograph, taken from behind, of a woman and a boy of two or three. they sat side by side on a shaded stoop, their arms linked, and seemed to be examining something in a shrub beside them. the boy was shirtless and had a small brown mark in the middle of his back. the top of his head was level with the woman’s shoulder. like many boys of his age, the bottom of his hair had grown longer and thicker than the rest of it, curling into a soft, wide triangle that sloped down his neck. at the moment the photograph was taken, he seemed to be readying himself to pull away although it was impossible to know for sure. this story is from the september 25, 2023 edition of the new yorker. start your 7 day magzter gold free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers. this story is from the september 25, 2023 edition of the new yorker. start your 7 day magzter gold free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers. some fresh hell the poet shane mccrae journeys through the land of the damned. the critics in his cups the intoxicating still lifes of giorgio morandi. half the battle why can't the u.s. military fill its depleted ranks? leaning tower how a high rise condo in manhattan went sideways. my friend pinocchio david rabe when i broke kenny's bedroom door, i was in the middle of a crazy argument with my girlfriend. play it again \"hugh jackman live\" and \"beckett briefs.\" untested the frustrated promise of the rape kit. developmental milestones of your elon musk the way your elon musk plays, moves, and communicates offers important data about his development. although every child is different, recognizing where your elon musk is on the curve can help you identify potential problems early and allow for intervention, under the guidance of your pediatrician and the federal regulatory agency. true blood one of the most valuable substances in the world has never been replicated. are we close? femme vitale alma mahler werfel, a woman with qualities.

challenge yourself with today’s puzzles. crossword polygon sudoku i’m in a low lit wellness space in a shoreditch basement with about 30 other   mostly female, mostly millennial   attendees. we’re all screaming at the tops of our voices to rage against the machine’s killing in the name, stamping our feet, shaking our heads and letting out some bloodcurdling screeches as the band repeatedly yell, “f*** you, i won’t do what you tell me …” this is not some weird rock fan club but a “sacred rage” workshop at the spiritual emporium fire + alchemy in east london. it is, says our facilitator, rachael morley, a direct channel for releasing emotions held in the body   and, boy, is everyone going for it. “i’m giving you all permission to have that f***ing tantrum, because seriously, we all need it,” she shouts above the din. “this is your space to be too much.” honestly, if a passer by looked through the window, they’d definitely call the police. as a single working parent to two adorable wind up merchants, 12 and 8, i don’t mind admitting my mum rage is pretty close to the surface. mornings go a bit like this: “how many times do i have to tell you? ugh, just stop fighting. look, if you don’t stop, i’ll, i’ll …” then, inevitably, i lose my temper and suffer the guilt and shame all day. i’m one of those many mothers who took comfort in an essay that the american writer minna dubin wrote for the new york times in 2020, which went viral on social media: “the rage mothers don’t talk about.” its standfirst was: “mothers are supposed to be patient martyrs, so our rage festers beneath our shame.” hard relate. so i was curious to try morley’s promise of “emotional release without judgment”. her workshops (£40 for two hours) are, she says, beneficial for those who suppress their negative emotions or fear they are “too much” or, equally, for those who are prone to angry, uncontrolled outbursts that are later regretted. morley says the practice “helps you process your emotions, frees up space within” and prevents the “long term damage that comes with pushing down negative feelings”. if you remember the seventies, you may recall the californian psychotherapist arthur janov and his primal therapy. he believed that screaming could release repressed childhood trauma. despite endorsement from, among others, john lennon and yoko ono, it fell out of favour owing to a lack of scientific support. today’s spiritual set, however, holds no truck with science   who needs hard evidence when it’s sacred? morley says her workshop, which she’s been running for a couple of years, is her own design, and combines scream therapy with breathwork, physical movement, shamanic drumming and gongs to help “move that stuck energy”, and all in a safe space. she also hosts events at festivals such as wilderness and soul circus. others have clearly had similar ideas   you can find sacred rage workshops (or “ceremonies”) across europe, the us and online. • scream therapy: howling into the void cured my stress back in shoreditch, morley instructs us through waves of stompy, shouty peaks and quieter breathing exercises. i tire quickly of faking my rage and feel surprisingly peaceful (if hoarse) after all the yelling. several of my neighbours are now wailing and blubbing, raw emotion spilling out of them. they have evidently reached a point of genuine catharsis. morley says being able to release emotion in a controlled setting like this is a muscle that needs practice: “we’re not used to activating that noise and letting it take you,” she says. the few men in the room are noticeably quiet. when holly brown, 25, a reiki teacher, did morley’s workshop, she found herself sobbing, with “noises coming out of my throat, and even really coughing   there was so much release. it’s like i went into a trance and released years of anger.” her sense of peace was longer lasting. “i felt lighter and more accepting of the world for weeks afterwards,” she says. morley says if tension arises with her boyfriend, they put on some punk and “scream and punch the air together. i allow the emotion to come forward and afterwards feel less anxious, more clear.” she advises me to do the same with my kids: “children need a safe place to express their emotions. they can’t do that at school.” the next time i get angry, i consider this   and then the slime that’s freshly embedded in the carpet   and frankly feel too indignant to care about their emotions. so what do the experts think? “it can be profoundly cathartic,” says the psychotherapist mike fisher, author of beating anger and co founder of the british association of anger management, which has been offering courses since 1997. “anger is better out than in. if you can access that space of rage and fury, you’re going to feel lighter and liberated, like you’ve got something off your chest.” as a culture, he adds, “we’re so repressed. it’s all about sucking it in, then people act it out with drugs, alcohol and a whole range of addictions until they explode and end up in workshops like ours. when we’re socially conditioned to believe anger is a massive no no, being allowed to go apeshit can be healthy. people feel the relief of not having to carry that fury.” while fisher says he can base his approval on “empirical evidence from the work i’ve been doing for many, many years”, the scientific community does not agree. “this is such a prominent myth, it even has a name,” says dr ryan martin, a psychology professor at the university of wisconsin green bay and author of why we get mad (he also has 257,000 instagram followers). “we call it the catharsis myth.” the research shows, he continues, “that catharsis like this not only doesn’t work to decrease anger, people who [do it] regularly are more likely to be angry and aggressive afterwards. psychologists are pretty unanimous that these ideas are not just ineffective but dangerous.” so what’s going on psychologically? first, martin says, there’s the idea that “practice makes permanent”   in other words, “you’re not really ‘letting anything out’, you’re just practising what you’ll do later”. second, “you’re keeping your angry thoughts right at the surface, instead of trying to do the opposite, which is to relax, distract, rethink, reframe”. this is unlikely to deter the sacred ragers. these women are, they say, reclaiming their right to fulminate   for them it’s a feminist act. “i used to cry a lot,” brown says. “it’s more socially acceptable [now]. but this helped me accept my anger, and it feels supportive to my life.” so, boyfriends, take those bins out   you’ve been warned.rachael morley’s sacred rage ceremony is at fire + alchemy, shoreditch, london, rachaelmorley.com © times media limited 2025. registered in england no. 894646. registered office: 1 london bridge street, se1 9gf.

supported by these conflict resolution experts know how to stop fights before and after they start. but would their techniques work on my brawling twins? by emily j. sullivan breaking the habit won’t be fun for anyone. but following a few tips   starting with keeping calm and consistent   will make the process smoother. by anna nowogrodzki it can be hard for children to move on from screen time, but it doesn’t always have to be a battle. by andrea petersen the burnout you feel as a parent and the burnout you feel at work are two separate phenomena with similar symptoms. by jessica grose flexibility and preparation are key when taking young children on a trip. so is choosing the right place to stay and keeping your expectations reasonable. by perri klass five luminous bedtime books to help little ones wind down at night. by sarah shun lien bynum bigger than a planet? smaller than an atom? size comparison videos are all the rage and may scratch a very old itch. by jenny marder the settlements of three class action cases could prompt industrywide changes for apps and ads aimed at young people. by natasha singer “a barn? a keyboard? a phone? what are you?” by jessica delfino to keep your little ones occupied, look no further than the world of podcasts. here are a few ideas for kids ages 2 to 6. by lindsay patterson flying with a small child is difficult enough. now try to get one to keep their mask on. by sarah firshein with the pandemic ongoing and millions of school age children learning remotely, the travel industry is beckoning families with lures of “schoolcation.” by julie weed an experimental medication that increases height in children with the most common form of dwarfism has raised hope that it can help them lead easier lives. but some say the condition is not a problem in need of a cure. by serena solomon favorites about race, protest, and non white protagonists. by dani blum the mosiers flew to india in march to pick up their daughter. the country locked down before they could leave. by maria abi habib autism spectrum disorder affects about one in 54 children. an early diagnosis can mean quicker access to the medical, behavioral and social services that a child may need. by catherine zuckerman all it takes are a few lessons from global cultures that raise remarkably cooperative and generous kids. by michaeleen doucleff even the most squeamish parents can treat these common ailments without ever needing to leave the house. by jacob e. osterhout how, and when, to introduce current events to your children. by paul l. underwood in more than 700 communities across the country, teachers are supporting students of all ages   and their parents   outside the classroom. even for the youngest children, the benefits can be profound. by christina caron and katherine zoepf if you need child care part time or want to save on costs, sharing a caregiver may be the way to go. by katie peek some sellers promote the health benefits of these plant extracts with evangelical zeal. but they have few proven benefits and, in some cases, can carry serious risks. by teresa carr despite demands, snubs and straight up insults, they’re still pretty adorable. by dani blum with careful planning, vegetarian and vegan diets can be nutritious and safe for young children. by ellen lee a sudden cessation in nursing can be uncomfortable   for your breasts and for your child. here’s how to wean your child successfully. by cassandra willyard a dad grapples with the baggage of raising a toddler whose growth is off the charts. by paul l. underwood with the right preparation, you can learn to keep your cool when the screaming starts. by paul l. underwood manners help teach tolerance, empathy and appropriate boundaries. instilling them early, experts say, gives children a ‘superpower.’ by jancee dunn simple tips for preventing sippy cups, snack crumbs and torn sticker books from inundating your home by jolie kerr facing parental burnout? use the magic word. by pooja lakshmin it’s a question that often plagues new parents, but clues from our evolutionary past can help explain why we wean and when. by elizabeth preston mothers are supposed to be patient martyrs, so our rage festers beneath our shame. by minna dubin here’s how i keep it together. by brianna sharpe it’s not uncommon for your little ones to accidentally injure you. here’s how to prevent the pain. by jessica grose

so i may have taken the whole stepping back and time off thing a little far this summer. between traveling to hawaii, finland, jasper, banff, vancouver, seattle, and jackson hole, i’ve spent more time in and around the mountains and lakes/ocean than i have been in new york city over the past three months. it’s been a whirlwind of good and bad. but mostly, i had the chance to reconnect with things that matter to me, to hang out with some really fun people and laugh a ton, and to push myself out of my comfort zone more than a few times. plus, i just feel so much better when i'm immersed in nature. i wish you could bottle up that mountain air because it's just so damn good.honestly, it makes me question why i still live in brooklyn. remind me again? while the extended travel has made getting back into the swing of things harder than usual, i don’t regret it. however, i do apologize if i owe you an email because i can’t find anything in my inbox right now. ok, admit it. you have some quirky thing you do before a big race. (we all do!) but does it actually help improve performance? i wrote about what the science says about that pre race ritual for runner’s world. also, everything you need to know about food recalls.i have a few bigger stories in the works that i can’t wait to share with you soon! a case for offline travel (rei): speaking of unplugging… what we miss by studying mostly men (outside): while i’ve written about the broader problems of excluding women from sport science research, here, alex hutchinson takes a closer look at two new studies on beet juice and vo2max to highlight those limitations. a tennis pro’s parents ask, ‘are you done yet?’ (the new york times): there were so many up and coming american women crushing it on the courts this year, including kristy ahn. her story is one that i could totally relate to the asian parents asking when you are going to get on with our life and pursue a real career, not the pro athlete portion lol. another highlight of the u.s. open this year was this naomi osaka coco gauff moment. the obscenity of curves (the new york times): you may have heard about the swimmer in alaska who was disqualified after winning because of a swimsuit wedgie. while the decision has since been reversed, it speaks to a larger (and continued) issue of policing women’s bodies. this opinion piece talks about why over sexualizing female athletes is problematic beyond just the obvious. laughter permitted with simone maneul and katie ledecky: speaking of swimmers, julie foudy chats with simone manuel and katie ledecky in this live episode of her podcast and i loved hearing from these two women. the grandmaster diet: how to lose weight while barely moving (espn): whoa. this story blew my mind. top chess players in the world can burn 560 calories in two hours of sitting and playing chess roughly what roger federer burns in an hour of singles tennis and can lose an average of two pounds a day! “it’s time for me to use my voice” (kara goucher): if you haven’t read this yet, it’s worth your time. after nike announced that they were updating athlete contract’s to support athletes during maternity, adam goucher (kara’s husband) spoke about their family’s experience with the company during and after kara’s pregnancy. for example, when she ran a pr of 2:24 at the boston marathon, she was suspended without pay. and that’s just the tip of it. meet the unfluencers (the cut): this story makes me hate myself a little: “there is clarity in knowing what doesn’t do it for you. the breaking point for me always hinges on the unfluencer’s taste’s not being what she thinks it is. but my being provoked probably has less to do with the narcissism i perceive on the unfluencer’s part than with my own: i’m not as original as i wish to be; my taste is not as interesting and refined as i think it is.” the rage mothers don’t talk about (the new york times): this story is so relatable. mothers are supposed to be patient martyrs and an endless well of love and support, so our rage festers beneath our shame. what’s the difference between anxiety and ambition? (the cut): asking for a friend. and also listening to this podcast from the cut on tuesdays. taylor swift bbc radio live lounge: because i’m obsessed with her new album. no posts ready for more?

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supported by mothers are supposed to be patient martyrs, so our rage festers beneath our shame. by minna dubin this story was originally published on sept. 13, 2019 in nyt parenting. [my son] can provoke me into a state of something similar to road rage. i have felt many times over the years that i was capable of hurting him … [t]he myth of maternal bliss is so sacrosanct that we can’t even admit these feelings to ourselves.    anne lamott, “mother rage: theory and practice,” salon.com the rage lives in my hands, rolls down my fingers clenching to fists. i want to hurt someone. i am tears and fury and violence. i want to scream and rip open pillows, toss chairs and punch walls. i want to see my destruction   feathers floating, overturned furniture, ragged holes in drywall. when i get mad like this around my 3 year old son, i have to say to myself, like a mantra, “don’t touch him, don’t touch him, don’t touch him.” touching him with this rage coursing through me only ends in my shame, and my son’s shock, and what else i do not know; only time will reveal that. i have never hit him, but the line between “hitting” and “not hitting” is porous. in this “not hitting” gray area there are soft arms squeezed too tight, a red superhero cape (velcro clasped around his neck) forcefully yanked off, a child picked up and thrown into his crib. for me it is better not to touch at all. only a few years ago, i remember judging a mother on the bus for smacking her child. now i have only empathy for her. mother rage can change you, providing access to parts of yourself you didn’t even know you had. mother rage is not “appropriate.” mothers are supposed to be martyr like in our patience.