The stories we tell.

Once upon a time, there was a mummy. She had three children who woke up at three different wake up times,all liked three different breakfasts and all would be in very different moods of a Monday morning.

The littlest one would be up at dawn body slamming off a sofa and demanding ‘the red bowl! by 6:15 am.

The middle one would float down at some point with his head in dreamland, asking questions like ‘how do you extract metal from the Earth?’ whilst scattering a trail of cereal all through the kitchen.

The biggest one would have to be physically pulled from her bed cave, groaning and grunting to be propped up on a breakfast stall and forced to eat half a banana with a duvet over her head.

As the morning went on, the 3 different children with all different needs, seemed to multiply in volume, chaos and collateral damage. By 7:30am, the floor was covered in discarded pyjamas, pools of weetabix, a cushion fort and an upturned basket of small (and very painful to stand on) cars. Someone would be stomping up the stairs shouting how unfair school was, another would be putting his pants on back to front whilst the littlest would be naked, eating the cat food. Chaos reined, whilst mummy’s sad little cup of tea got colder and colder in a forgotten corner of the house.

Meanwhile, mummy’s capacity for patience, calm and gentle parenting was wearing thinner and thinner. She tried to remain calm, take deep breaths, and huff and puff to blow the chaos down. But alas, as she heard the shatter of a milk bottle coincide with the yells of ‘mummy! There’s a poo on the floor’ her head was suddenly shrouded in red mist and her blood rapidly boiled like a kettle, from her toes rapidly up to her head. With her heart thumping in her chest she exploded:

“EVERYBODY!!! JUST. STOP. RIGHT NOW!!” before barking out a list of instructions like she was delivering a military exercise involving getting 3 kids to school. By 8:25 she had achieved her objective, albeit with three sulky recruits, some sad, some shell shocked, some still covered in weetabix. As she waved off her little troop mummy was left with a feeling of deep guilt, shame and a million thoughts circling her head….

To be continued…

Epilogue

You probably weren’t expecting a fairy tale today - and it certainly doesn't feel like one when you’re living it. As yes dear reader, the mummy in the story - it’s me.

Now I know you’re on the edge of your seats to find out what happened next - well let me put it to you. When you’ve been in this scenario - the pot has boiled over, the straw upon the camel’s back as broken - you’ve lost your rag, your patience, you’ve snapped, shouted, lost it. 

What are the thoughts that come up for you?

What’s the inner narrative that’s going on for you?

In my experience, the thoughts that then plague me for the rest of the day go a little like this…

‘ You ruined their morning’ 

‘ You’re such a terrible mum’ 

‘ You only have a short time with them before school and you completely ruined it!’ 

‘ They will have a terrible day now and it’s all your fault’ 

‘ I bet so and so (insert random name of perfect Mum, probably seen from afar, possibly on social media.) would never lose their temper like this..’’’

…the list goes on.

Well I’m going to call it on these thoughts. They masquerade as facts, evidence - making us feel consumed by them for an entire day, making us believe that we are inherently bad, getting it wrong, the only one. Whereas actually? They’re stories. Yes, just like fairy tales, fables, bedtime books, morning made up stories and all the rest.

Layer upon Layer

Mistake happens (i.e. we lose our rag), but then we apply a whole layer of stories that amplify and exacerbate what’s already happened. These get more and more fantastical and elaborate as we create complex characters within them, villains (the mum) with fatal flaws, selfish motives, terrible traits that lead to their downfall (talking ourselves into a hole of shame and guilt and lack of self worth by the end of the day).

Here’s what this actually looks like inside our heads - in real time - in all its messy, spiralling glory:

• sibling

• The Trigger: Child spills milk / fights / wipes yoghurt on cat. → Heart rate goes up. Breathing gets shallow. You might snap or shout or want to run away.

• The Reaction: “STOP! EVERYONE JUST STOP!” → Volume goes up. Everyone cries. The guilt creeps in before you’ve finished your yell.

  
  

• The Immediate Thought: “I’ve ruined EVERYTHING.” → Because of course, the entire day hinges on this one five-second outburst.

  
  

• The Catastrophising: “They’ll remember this forever.” → Never mind the 2,000 other warm, loving moments from the past week.

  
  

• The Comparison: “Other mums don’t do this.” → Based entirely on one Instagram reel filmed in a spotless beige kitchen.

  
  

• The Character Assassination (of ourselves): “I’m impatient. I’m shouty. I’m failing.” → Faster than you can say “plot twist,” we become the villain of our own story.

  
  

• The Spiral: One lost temper → becomes a personality flaw → becomes a lifelong pattern → becomes proof you’re getting motherhood wrong.

  
  

• The Grand Finale: You spending your entire workday replaying the scene like a badly directed home movie, complete with dramatic voiceover.

Flipping the Script (a plot twist Liane Moriarty would be proud of)

My take on all of this -from both personal experience and clients’ - is if we’re going to tell ourselves stories, we might as well choose better ones. Ones that accept, offer self compassion and have a short sharp ending. 

Here’s how to swap out the old narrative for a new one:

• Old story: “I ruined their morning.” 

• New story: “We had a hard moment. Hard moments happen. The morning also included cuddles, cornflakes and finding someone’s shoe behind the toaster.”

  
  
  
  

• Old story: “I’m a terrible mum.” 

• New story: “I’m just human. I sometimes feel overwhelmed like all humans do.”

  
  

• Old story: “They’ll carry this forever.” 

• New story: “Kids are wildly forgiving and live entirely in the moment. I will make time to connect and repair with them later.”

  
  

• Old story: “Other mums don’t struggle like this.” 

• New story: “Every mum struggles. Most just don’t show it”. 

  
  

You don’t have to pretend the moment didn’t happen - you just don’t have to turn it into a 900-page novella where you’re the villain. This script flipping puts us back in a position of power in moments where we can feel powerless, which in motherhood, would could be the fairytale ending we're all searching for.