The Space Between

Earlier this week, we experienced our first full-bodied tantrum. It happened at naptime, twice in one day.

Naptime usually goes smoothly for us, but I think Patrick is transitioning to a one-nap schedule, and his body is a bit confused. One day, he’s tired at 10 am, and the next, he refuses to sleep until 11:30. I suspect he’s trying to find a new rhythm, which can be a rough process for a toddler.

He has gone through similar transitions and sleep regressions before, but he never reacted to being put to sleep like it was the worst thing ever. It was like he was being invited to be boiled alive or something. I had never seen that kind of screaming before.

I recognized what was happening right away.

“Ah, THIS is what a full tantrum looks like.”

As a parenting educator, I know the theory. I understand that tantrums are a normal part of development. I know children aren’t trying to give us a hard time; they are having a hard time. I know connection is more important than correction.

But in that moment, none of that knowledge felt useful until I figured out how to separate myself from his experience.

He was on the floor rolling, screaming, arching his back, and pushing me away. I stood right there, absorbing it all.

There’s something about a tantrum that pulls you in physically. It’s not just loud. The emotional intensity almost creates its own gravity. The room feels smaller. Your nervous system goes into alarm mode.

Your body wants to DO something.

Fix it. Distract. Soothe. Reason. Anything to stop the discomfort.

I tried reading a book—no use. I tried picking him up—he pushed me away.

Then I felt that familiar wave of helplessness rising. And then I realized that the overwhelm I started to feel didn’t actually come from him.

It came from my resistance to the situation. He was resisting sleep, and I was resisting his resistance. Two forces pushing against one another.

The harder I tried to change his experience, the more frustrated I became when it didn’t work. Noticing that shifted my perspective.

So, instead of doing more, I did less.

I didn’t leave him alone with his feelings, but I stopped trying to fix them.

I sat down nearby and said something like, “It looks like you’re really upset right now. I’m sorry, my baby. I’m here when you want a hug.” Then I stayed right there next to him.

I did box breathing (4-4-4) as best I could and let him work through his anger.

Eventually, he started looking up at me between cries.

Then he reached his arms up. I picked him up and held him.

Reflecting on this experience, I realized that what we need to learn as parents, first and foremost, is not a parenting strategy or knowledge about development. Those things helped me avoid escalating the situation or entering a power struggle.

But before I could apply those, I needed the skill of self-reflection in the moment. Simply put, I had to be able to slow down in the middle of chaos.

And what helped me most in developing that ability were the self-regulation tools I practiced for years during my inner healing journey, long before becoming a parent.

Meditation. Self-hypnosis. Self-awareness.

All that time spent learning to observe my own emotions without immediately reacting to them. Not perfectly and definitely not consistently. But reliably enough to create some space between the trigger and the reaction in many stressful situations like this one.

I think that’s something that is rarely mentioned about parenting. We spend so much time learning how to handle our children’s big feelings. We learn scripts, techniques, and strategies. And those are important.

But in the moments that truly test us, I believe we rely less on what we know and more on what we’ve practiced.

When our child’s emotions crash into our own nervous system, what shows up isn’t our parenting philosophy. It’s our capacity.

Our ability to stay present with discomfort. Our ability to accept not fixing. Our ability to sit beside someone we love while they struggle and trust that the feeling will pass and that they are strong enough to feel it.

I know I won’t always get it right. I’m sure there will be future tantrums where I react, become impatient, or feel overwhelmed.

But this week reminded me that sometimes, the most powerful thing we can offer our children isn’t a solution. It’s our presence.

And sometimes the only thing that makes that presence possible is a single breath between the trigger and our response.

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May you have the strength to find that space next time you need it.

Warmly,

Marta