What About Me? A Mother’s Anger, A Morning Lost, and the Sacred Act of Returning to Ourselves

This morning was supposed to be golden.

The surf report promised perfect waves. The muffins were pre-baked. The plan was set: seize the day, ride the morning tide, and return home with salt-kissed skin and that kind of ocean-fueled clarity that makes everything else feel doable.

But the day had other plans.

My daughters, usually bright and bustling, woke in slow-motion moods. Cranky. Sluggish. Needy. Not ill, not even upset—just off. And suddenly the sunrise rhythm I had so carefully mapped out for us dissolved into a haze of custom breakfasts, scattered books, and one child voluntarily doing a workbook while the other curled up in pajamas. It was no longer a surfing morning. It was a “pivot” morning. Again.

By the time I left for the grocery store, my shoulders had become earrings. My jaw ached from the grip of silent resentment. My body buzzed with a familiar hum—frustration morphing into helplessness. And underneath it all, a refrain kept looping in my mind:

What about me?

The Real Weight of a Missed Morning

Let’s be honest—this wasn’t just about missing surf. This was about every small moment that a mother defers her desire. It was about the dozens of micro-disappointments that pile up until we’re not just sad—we’re seething.

We give. And give. And give again. And some days, it doesn’t feel noble or fulfilling—it feels infuriating.

I knew I was stuck in a cognitive trap. My mind started spinning with absolutist thoughts:

• “I never get to do what I want.”

• “No one cares about what I need.”

• “I’m tethered to moods that are not mine.”

These are the mental grooves of burnout. These are the thoughts that arise not because we are irrational or selfish—but because our bodies and nervous systems are sounding the alarm: your needs are not being met.

When our plans are derailed—especially ones that represent joy, freedom, or long-delayed self-care—it can feel like a theft. Even if it’s a small moment in the grand scheme of things, it matters. Because you matter.

And yet, the world doesn’t pause for our frustration.

We still chop the apples. Plan the meals. Answer workbook questions with a nod we hope hides the disappointment behind our eyes.

So Where Do We Go From Here?

Here’s the truth I’m learning:

We cannot control the mood of the morning.

But we can control how we repair the breach inside ourselves after it happens.

And repair doesn’t start with “just be grateful” or “someone has it worse.” That’s a spiritual bypass.

It starts with letting ourselves feel the full, raw ugh of the moment—and then gently stepping into the reframe. Not to dismiss our anger, but to guide it somewhere healing.

The Reframe: Grace, Boundaries, and Breath

After I raged internally, after I spiraled through every missed appointment and retreat, I remembered to breathe.

Literally. I reminded my body:

I am safe. I am not in danger. My needs are not being met right now, but I am still safe.

That’s a radical shift. That’s grace.

Because the truth is: unmet needs can mimic danger in the body. Our nervous system doesn’t distinguish between emotional deprivation and physical threat. It just registers the absence of something vital—and begins to spiral into fight, flight, or freeze.

The work, then, is not just emotional. It’s physiological.

And with each breath, we signal: I see you. I’ve got you. We’re okay.

And then we plan a little boundary. One that says: Next time, if the waves are perfect and no one’s ready, I’m going anyway.

Not out of punishment.

Out of love. For all of us.

Because mothers who meet their own needs teach their children how to meet theirs. Mothers who honor their joy model sovereignty. Mothers who go surfing when the waves call model a life that says, my life matters too.

Reflection Prompts:

1. When was the last time your needs were quietly sidelined? How did it make you feel in your body?

2. What do you need to say to yourself in moments when your plans fall apart? What would self-compassion sound like?

3. What’s one boundary you can put in place to honor your needs without guilt?

4. What unmet need keeps resurfacing for you lately? How might you meet it in small, doable ways?

5. Where do you need to hear: You’re allowed to want things, too?

A Gentle Practice: The Three-Breath Return

When you’re spiraling, try this:

1. First breath – Acknowledge the feeling. “I am angry. I am hurt. I feel unseen.”

2. Second breath – Name the need beneath it. “I needed freedom. I needed joy. I needed space.”

3. Third breath – Ground in the moment. “I am safe. I am allowed to take care of myself. I can make a new choice.”

Motherhood will always require pivots. But grace isn’t about never getting mad—it’s about how we come back.

Even if the surf is missed. Even if the muffins go uneaten. Even if our plans collapse like a sandcastle in a rising tide.

There’s always another wave.

There’s always another breath.

There’s always a way back to yourself.