Motherhood, guilt and rage

By Meera, mother of two.

I didn’t expect motherhood to feel like this the second time around. I thought I knew what I was doing. With my first child, everything was new, but I somehow managed. But with my second baby, the one I’d prayed for, the one I dreamed of, something cracked open in me that I didn’t know existed. It started small—frustration when the baby wouldn’t sleep. Resentment when my husband slept through the crying. Irritation when my toddler spilled milk again while I was nursing. But one day, it wasn’t small anymore. It was 2:47 a.m. The baby had been crying for what felt like hours. I’d changed her, fed her, rocked her. I tried bouncing, shushing, and walking laps around the room. Nothing worked. My body ached. My nipples were sore. I was so tired I couldn’t see straight. Then my husband, from under the blanket, mumbled, “Can you get her? I have work in the morning.” That was it. I snapped. I yelled. Not just a little frustrated sigh—I screamed. At him, at the baby, at the universe. I slammed the bedroom door so hard that a picture frame fell off the wall. I felt like a monster. My baby cried harder. My husband sat up, stunned. I stood in the hallway, shaking, clutching the banister, whispering to myself, What is wrong with me? That night, I sat on the bathroom floor and cried until the sun came up. Not soft, sad tears—the kind that feel like something dark and deep is being wrung out of your chest. I was grieving. Grieving the version of me who used to feel calm, who laughed easily, who didn’t rage at the people she loved. But here’s the thing I didn’t know then: I wasn’t broken. I was burnt out. My body was healing. My hormones were crashing. My mind was drowning under the weight of responsibility, isolation, and sleep deprivation. And I wasn’t alone. When I finally told my sister about the outburst, she looked at me and said, “I’ve been there.” That sentence gave me enough strength to reach out to my OB, who gently told me, “What you’re describing sounds like postpartum rage. It’s more common than you think.” I started therapy. I let go of shame. I learned to say, I need help. I gave my husband a real chance to support me, not just with the baby, but with me. It’s been a year now. The rage hasn’t vanished entirely. But now, I recognize the warning signs. I give myself breaks, I let go of perfection, and most of all, I’ve stopped pretending that motherhood is all lullabies and baby giggles. Sometimes, it’s ugly. Sometimes, it’s loud. But always, it’s real. If you’re reading this and recognizing pieces of yourself, please know this: you are not crazy. You are not failing. You are not alone.

You're a mom.

A tired, brave, growing mom.

And you deserve care too.