A woman looking into a broken mirror with a spiderweb crack, her reflection distorted in the glass. Soft natural light fills the room. A contemplation on breaking cycles and the feeling of being "too much" in motherhood and relationships.

“I am afraid she is like me,” I admitted to myself and my husband, defeated.

It had been a long day. The incessant asking of things. The cleaning of things. The organizing of things. The preparing of food and the cleaning up of said food. It had all gotten to me.

I was having one of those moments where it felt like I was being crowded out of my own life. I had been of service for too long, and I had nothing left to give.

The Crash

And there she was. She was having a meltdown over something I found unimportant. She wanted more of me after being with me the whole day. But there was no more me to have.

I felt like a vacant meat suit. I was hollow on the inside and running on a sense of duty and fumes.

In that moment, her big feelings felt like a threat. Like a tsunami I needed to brace for. I, a grown woman, felt like I needed to protect myself from a small child who was upset that I didn’t read a fourth book at bedtime.

I caught myself tensing my muscles and shallowing my breath. I caught myself stifling a scream that would fit so perfectly in the pillow I was lying on next to her.

Just make it stop. Please. The sound. The asks. Make it stop. Can you not see that I am at capacity? I am in costume as a mom.

The Third Entity

I read her the fourth book. You know, like a pushover. I just wanted the sound to stop. Pete the Cat (whom I am adamant is a stoner) and his imagination were discovering ways to reconfigure a cardboard box. I slowed down as much as I could as to bore her to sleep. She, in turn, asked me why I sounded like a man.

I kept reading. I finished the book.

“I just want Mommy to cuddle me,” she said, like she always does. She spoke of Mommy in the third person, like a third entity in the room.

And perhaps the Mom in that moment was just that. A third entity.

There was my child who wanted connection. There was my ragged, overworked, grouchy self. And then there was this elusive third party that could be called upon reliably. Mommy.

I moved closer to her. She likes it when we share a pillow, and our noses touch. I could smell her kid's toothpaste on her breath. I traced her eyebrows with my finger and watched as she settled. She was almost hypnotized into sleep.

“She’s so beautiful,” I thought as I admired the way her big eyes shut.

She trusts me. Or is it this Mommy chick she keeps talking about? Anyhow, she sees comfort in me when I see nothing but torn-up upholstery in the vehicle of my being. I am Mom to her.

The Echo of the Past

I know about Mom and the power that role holds. Even from almost 22 years in the grave, my own mother has a power over me I cannot explain.

I, too, have always had big feelings. I have felt like I was stared at like an emotional cannon that could be dangerous to be around when activated. Like I was too much. Too sensitive. Too observant. Too persistent in my desire to understand. Too desperate to be understood.

My grief was too poignant. It felt disproportionate to the time that has passed. My desire for closeness with my mom, or rather Mom, was too overwhelming for me and for her. She, too, braced for the tsunami of my being. She, too, was not taught that her feelings were not lethal. And so she could not teach me that mine were safe.

The Projection

My daughter is similar to me in her intensity. I catch myself projecting her struggling the way I have struggled.

I want to shield her from her sensitivity so that she doesn’t get wounded. I know wounded. I am afraid for her. I am afraid of potentially witnessing her woundedness and being rendered helpless in my ability to help her.

I fear that Mom, the elusive all-knowing being she currently sees me as, will fail her. I fear I will abandon her in her big feelings, the way I felt I was abandoned as a child. I worry she will learn to fear herself the way I have in the past. I worry she will seek confirmation that she is "too much" in relationships, which will reflect that back to her.

One may say I was spiraling. She is five, and she just wanted me to read her another book at bedtime.

Alas, there I was. Wide awake at midnight, playing all kinds of shitty scenes in my head in bed. I was plotting all the ways I could safeguard her feelings. All the ways I could patch holes in her life so she wouldn’t have to deal with this.

The Real Work

She wanted a book. She wanted Mom.

She did not need a frantic stage manager who popped too many Adderallsthat morning.

She didn’t need me to seal her fate at five.

She needed me to be present with her as the wave of emotion washed over her. She needed me to calm my own self down enough to see her as she is. Perfect. She needed me to assure her that she was not too much for me.

My work is to embody Mom as best I can. For myself and for her. Ragged, dirty, tired, and hungry, Mom’s job is to love and guide.

My job is to befriend what I define as "too much."

And that, my friend, is what we call breaking cycles.

A woman and child sitting together on a pier looking at the water in golden light. A visual representation of breaking cycles, mother-daughter connection, and offering presence after an emotional rupture.

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“I Am Afraid She Is Like Me:” Befriending the "Too Much"