How Sacred Rage and Motherhood Helped Me Reclaim My Voice

When Strength Looks Different Than You Imagined

Lately, my youngest son has been calling me a “badass” and a “mama gorilla.”

It might sound surprising to someone outside our home—but in our world, it’s a compliment. He says it with affection and pride, like he sees something in me he hadn’t before: presence, fire, speaking up. 

And he’s not wrong.

What he doesn’t know is how hard I fought to become the version of myself he’s now recognizing.

The Summer Everything Caved In

In the summer of 2023, I didn’t just burn out—I broke. I hid it from him and my oldest son, but I'm sure they both knew something was going on. I was quiet, and often, my youngest asked if I was okay.

What they didn't know is that I was having full-body panic attacks that stretched through days and nights. I went weeks without sleep. I was terrified I was losing my grip on reality. At the same time, I was grieving my mom’s mental decline and preparing for my oldest son to leave for college.

I felt like I was unraveling—and I didn’t know if I’d ever find my way back.

The Weight of Trauma Stored in the Body

As a trauma-informed therapist, I knew what was happening. My body had been living in survival mode for years—holding grief, fear, and emotional labor quietly and constantly. Eventually, it couldn’t hold it anymore.

Grieving Two Roles at Once

Letting go of my mother as I’d known her and preparing to release my oldest son into the world opened up something I wasn’t ready for. I had to meet the parts of me I’d long exiled—the fragile, scared, deeply wounded parts.

The ones I used to hide so I wouldn’t be “too much” for others.

Realizing I Had Abandoned Myself

Over time, I saw how much I had poured into others—emotionally holding them, making space for their pain—while leaving myself unseen.

And the hardest part? I had been the one doing the most abandoning. I ignored my own needs, made myself smaller, invisible, nearly erased myself, and pretended it didn’t hurt.

When Rage Became a Teacher

Then came the rage.

Not reckless anger—but sacred rage. A slow, clarifying fire that came from years of silencing myself or being silenced, unsupported, unseen.

Rage for all the emotional labor I had done without acknowledgment. Rage for being a life raft in water I was also drowning in. Rage for how long I had been shrinking to stay “acceptable.”

Fighting for My Son, and For Myself

That fall, when more injustice happened to my youngest son—the one who now refers to me as the bad ass—something shifted. I fought back—with clarity, purpose, and a refusal to be silenced.

It wasn’t just about him. I was fighting for the little girl inside me. The one no one fought for when I was a child.

Meeting My Son Where He Is

Here’s the context—because this is important:

My youngest son is autistic, has a borderline intellectual disability and a rare genetic chromosome anomaly. He started cussing when he was three, picking up words outside of my home. I tried all the parenting tools: sticker charts, swear jars, consequences. None of it worked. Not because he was defiant, but because his brain simply works differently.

By the time the pandemic hit in 2020, we were all stuck inside, stretched thin, suffering together. That’s when I realized he didn’t need more correcting. He needed connection. And what he needed most of all was for me to stop fighting him and start fighting for him and with him. 

So I let it go. And eventually, I joined him.

These days, swearing is part of our love language—not because we don’t care, but because we care that much.

It’s a shared shorthand. A little rebellion. A little release. A lot of connection. I've learned to work with him. Unfortunately, many others have yet to do the same, which is why I fought for him.

Why I’m No Longer “Letting It Go”

I’ve been told I’m too intense. Too sensitive. That I “just need to let things go.” Which is why hiding my needs and not setting limits became the way I survived. 

But I’ve learned that those phrases often serve to dismiss and control—especially when women express pain. They’re ways to bypass discomfort, not heal it.

Emotional pain doesn’t need a pep talk. It needs to be seen, held, and honored before it can begin to heal.

The Physical Cost of Self-Betrayal

Women are told to stay small, be nice, smile more—and we call that strength because nothing "bothers" us. And then we wonder why we’re anxious, inflamed, disconnected, or chronically exhausted.

Because self-abandonment lives in the body. And eventually, it shows up—whether as autoimmune flares, fatigue, depression, or burnout.

Letting My Body Lead

Now, I listen more closely to my body. When I speak the truth, when I set boundaries, when I advocate without shrinking—I feel lighter. Like something inside me exhales.

That’s how I know I’m on the right path. My body leads. My voice follows.

We’ve been taught to doubt that wisdom because it’s not always logical. Because it’s inconvenient. Because it scares people.

But betraying your truth to stay safe has its own cost. And that cost, for me, was too high.

From Armor to Alignment

Recently, I was featured in Becoming an Unstoppable Woman Magazine. I shared the news on Instagram and chose Sia’s “Unstoppable” as the background music for the post.

At first, it just felt fitting. But later, when I really listened to the lyrics—"I’m unstoppable, I’m a Porsche with no brakes"—I realized how much it mirrored the kind of "performative" strength I used to habitually portray. 

The kind that pushes through. Smiles through held back tears and never needs anything.

The kind that burns you out.

And while I’ve outgrown that version of strength, I didn’t take the post down. I kept it there as a marker of where I’ve been. As a reminder to myself of how far I’ve come. I don’t have to delete the old versions of me to honor the one I am now because that part carried me through too.

Now though, strength looks softer. Slower. It asks for help. It sets limits. It rests.

It doesn’t need to prove anything anymore—because it knows.

Being the Bad Ass That I Am

A few years ago, I would’ve shushed my youngest. Told him to put money in the swear jar. Felt embarrassed if he said something like that in public. But now? I grin. I look at him and say:

"Damn right. Kiss my ass."

I’m not performing strength anymore. I am strong. Not in spite of my softness, my care, and my sensitivity—because of it.

I’m raising a son who sees that now—who calls out my care with pride and joy, even if it comes wrapped in a "socially unacceptable" word.

And my oldest—who spent years making himself small, reading the room, doing what I modeled without ever being asked. He’s finding his own confidence now. He’s learning to take up space too.

They’re both becoming who they are. And I’m finally becoming who I’ve always been.

If you’re holding too much, you’re not alone. Trauma therapy and somatic approaches like EMDR or Brainspotting can help reconnect you to what your body already knows. Reach out today for a free 15-minute consultation.