Reflections on anger, tenderness, and growing into the kind of mother I want to be.

Today, I was exhausted.

While playing, my child got upset because things didn’t go the way he had imagined. He lost his temper. And I… I lost it too.

My voice rose.

My emotions spilled out.

But before I could gather myself, this little person—who just moments ago had been crying—reached out for a hug.

His hands asked for connection.

My heart broke.

Before becoming a mother, the old me would have walked away, stubborn and cold, holding in the pain.

But today, I knelt down and hugged him tightly. I hurt for both of us.

He looked at me and said, “I’m sorry.”

And I said sorry too—for raising my voice, for not managing my emotions.

And then came the flood of regret.

Why did I lose control again?

Why did I fail again at giving my child the warm, safe childhood I want so badly for him?

This kind of guilt… it often lives quietly inside mothers. It’s hard for partners to understand—

not because they don’t care, but because male brains are wired differently.

They just… don’t always feel what we feel, or feel it in the same way.

So I am left with the only path I know:

To forgive myself.

To remind myself.

To keep going—because life doesn’t pause for emotional recovery.

But that night, as we prepared for bed, it happened again.

Another emotional bump, another round of tension.

This time, I took a deep breath.

I told myself, “Stop.”

Then I gently told him, “Stop.”

I looked into his eyes and said, “I know you’re upset. Was it because your playtime got interrupted?”

He nodded.

“If we add a little more time to play, would that help you feel better?”

He nodded again.

So we negotiated. He asked for 10 more minutes. I suggested 5.

We met in the middle: 8 minutes.

He went back to playing, smiling.

And I asked softly, “Do you feel happy now?”

He said yes.

Then I told him something new:

“You know, when you get really angry like that, it’s like there’s a monkey in your head—a very loud and jumpy one—an angry monkey. It messes up your thoughts and makes you yell.”

He was fascinated.

“Can I see it?” he asked.

I smiled.

“This monkey is special. You can feel it, but you can’t see it. Other people can see the way it changes your face or your voice, but you can only feel it inside.”

He thought about it seriously. Then he asked,

“Mama, what’s ‘angry monkey’ in Chinese?”

I stroked his hair and said, “We can call it 生气猴 or 愤怒小猴子.”

He giggled. “Then I’ll try to chase away my angry monkey faster next time.”

Before bed, I told him I’d ordered a picture book about the angry monkey.

“We’ll read it together when it arrives,” I said.

He smiled, snuggled up close, and drifted off to sleep.

—

This moment—this night—came after countless hours of reading parenting books, reflecting, failing, and trying again.

It was the first time I stood outside of myself, watching the moment from above like a director—not just reacting, but gently guiding myself.

And in that moment, I felt myself stepping more clearly into the role of the mother I want to be: warm, confident, human.

There will be more meltdowns. More mistakes.

But I’ll keep trying.

Because I love him—

and I’m learning how to show that love not just in instinct, but with wisdom.

This is what it means to grow in love.

This is what it means to grow as a mother.