It’s a term I’d heard before becoming a mum. I even suspected (knew) I’d be a bit susceptible to it. I’m a Scorpio married to a Taurus and I’ve been known to have a bit of a temper when pushed.
I knew all the supposed ways to manage this thing called postpartum rage before I actually had a baby. I’d read everything. Listened to all the podcasts. I was going to nail being a mum.
Until the baby arrived. And I didn’t nail it.
The rage didn’t set in during the emergency cesarean or even during our NICU stay. I was running on shock and adrenaline and didn’t have room for many other emotions.
It didn’t creep in when I missed out on all the pregnancy massages I’d booked for maternity leave or the slow, blissful mornings I thought were coming.
It started when the adrenaline wore off. When we got home and realised our baby wasn’t going to be textbook.
The emotions started bubbling when the exhaustion hit. When I understood why sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture.
The rage came when my baby screamed non-stop even though I was trying everything I could think of and everything Google could come up with.
It came when he couldn’t be put down without screaming, just so I could eat with two hands or have a five-minute shower.
It came when he knocked the shield off my breast and flailed around like a fish out of water refusing to feed.
It came when blocked ducts made my whole body clench from pain and he still wouldn’t feed properly.
It came at myself, bouncing on the fit ball in what we called the room of doom, wondering if I was giving him shaken baby syndrome.
And it came at him for not just shutting his eyes and stopping the screaming.
It came when people chirped, “Oh reflux is tough. Do you hold him upright for 30 minutes after each feed?”
It came when I saw other mums going to mothers group and baby swimming lessons.
It came every time I heard that certain cough that meant a vomit was coming.
It came cleaning out the car seat of said vomit after every car trip.
It came from feeling like my husband didn’t understand the mental load. The pumping schedules, the emergency bottles, the nipple shields that disappeared in the dark, the sleep tracking, or just the noise of him breathing.
The rage came from feeling like a fucking failure.
I know I wasn’t failing. But in that moment, it was nearly impossible to separate the anger from all the other emotions that crash into you during the early days of motherhood.
And I know now it’s nothing to be ashamed of.
If you bottle up that many feelings, I honestly think you might be a psychopath. So my two cents? Let them out. Yell. Cry. Vent. Swear.
Your husband will forgive you. Your baby won’t remember. I hope.
And please, don’t tell a mum in the thick of it to “enjoy it while it lasts” or that “it goes so fast.”
That enraged me too.
I wasn’t enjoying life at that point. I wanted to fast-forward to the fun part. That’s not a crime.
If this resonates, please share it with someone who might need to hear it.
Someone out there needs your story to feel less alone.