Learning to Love My Yell

It started as a tightening in my chest — breath shortening, tension rising. Panic.
That familiar spiral beginning to take hold.

I wanted to run. To scream. To hide.
To lock myself in the bathroom and just be — alone, uninterrupted, unseen.

But I couldn’t. I was in the library.

Two kids screaming at the top of their lungs, their needs unmet, their little bodies expressing what I was trying to suppress.
A man looked over from his laptop — clearly trying to work.
I rushed to quiet them, juggling bags, shushing voices, holding back tears.
In the chaos, I forgot to check out a book, and the librarian came running after me.

Shame.
Guilt.
Fear.

That old whisper: “You can’t control your kids. You’re a bad mom.”

There it was.
The belief that lives just beneath the surface.

I feel like I’m not momming right.

And as I write that now, I laugh. “Not momming right.”
What even is the right way to mom?
There isn’t one. And yet somehow, that truth can still be the hardest to hold.

Then comes the fear — the fear of being judged, of being seen as “less than.”
But honestly, if anyone else called me a bad mom, I’d probably laugh in their face and go full bear mode.
Because no one sees the sacrifices, the constant effort to break cycles, to parent differently, to love better.
This sh*t is hard.

No one taught me how much of my childhood I’d have to revisit just to raise my own kids.
It’s exhausting — and yet, sacred.

I can almost hear Spirit laughing gently beside me.
Because while this moment feels heavy, I know someone out there is carrying more.
And still, I can see the beauty in the cracks — the sacred invitation to grow, to soften, to see myself with kinder eyes.

I might not have the time to sit in ceremony all day, but I see now that motherhood is the ceremony.
Every meltdown, every trigger, every laugh and repair — it’s all sacred practice.

If I hadn’t allowed my yell to move through me, to be witnessed instead of suppressed, it would’ve buried itself deeper — into my gut, joining all the other too-hard moments I’ve spent years working to release.

So today, I’m learning to love my yell.
To thank her for showing me where I still hold pain.
To breathe through her instead of bury her.

Be gentle with yourself, loves.
This is the work — and it’s beautiful.

In Peace, Love and Service,

Rebecca